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THE  WORKS    OF 
JAMES    RUSSELL  LOWELL 

ILL  US  TRA  TED  WITH  FOR  TRAITS 
ENGRAVED    ON  STEEL 

IN  TEN  VOLUMES 
VOLUME  X. 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


IN    FOUR  VOLUMES 
VOLUME    IV. 

WAR  POEMS,  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 
ETC. 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

(STfoe  JftitoeraiDe  $r?00,  Cambridge 


Copyright,  1868, 1869, 1876, 1888, 1890, 
Br  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Company. 


CONTENTS 


POEMS  OF  THE  WAR. 

THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD 1 

Two  SCENES  FROM  THE  LIFE  OF  BLONDEL      .        .  6 

MEMORISE  POSITUM 10 

ON  BOARD  THE  '76 14 

ODE   RECITED  AT   THE   HARVARD   COMMEMORATION         .      17 

L'ENVOI 32 

THE  CATHEDRAL 37 

THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS. 

ODE  READ  AT  THE  ONE  HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY 
OF  THE  FIGHT  AT  CONCORD  BRIDGE  ...        65 

UNDER  THE  OLD  ELM 74 

AN  ODE  FOR  THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY,  1876        .        .        89 

HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE. 

AGASSIZ 101 

To  HOLMES,  ON  HIS  SEVENTY-FIFTH  BIRTHDAY       .      120 
IN  A  COPY  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 123 

ON  RECEIVING  A  COPY  OF  MR.  AUSTIN  DOBSON'S   "  OlJ) 

WORLD  IDYLLS" 123 

To  C.  F.  BRADFORD 125 

BANKSIDE     .......  127 

JOSEPH   WlNLOCK .  .129 

SONNET,  To  FANNY  ALEXANDER       ....      130 

JEFFRIES  WYMAN 130 

To  A  FRIEND 131 

WITH  AN  ARMCHAIR 132 

E.  G.  DE  R 133 

BON  VOYAGE  ! 133 

To  WHITTIER,  ON  HIS  SEVENTY-FIFTH  BIRTHDAY    .      134 
ON  AN  AUTUMN  SKETCH  OF  H.  G.  WILD      .  .  135 


vi  CONTENTS 

To  Miss  D.  T .       .       .      135 

WITH  A  COPY  OF  AUCASSIN  AND  NICOLETB         .         .  136 
ON  PLANTING  A  TREE  AT  INVERARA        .        .        .      137 
AN  EPISTLE  TO  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS    .        .        .  138 
SENTIMENT. 

ENDYMION .        .        .      148 

THE  BLACK  PREACHER 156 

ARCADIA  REDIVIVA 159 

THE  NEST 163 

A  YOUTHFUL  EXPERIMENT  IN  ENGLISH  HEXAMETERS      165 

BIRTHDAY  VERSES  . 166 

ESTRANGEMENT 167 

PHOEBE 168 

DAS  EWIG-WEIBLICHE 170 

THE  RECALL 171 

ABSENCE 172 

MONNA  LISA 172 

THE  OPTIMIST 173 

ON  BURNING  SOME  OLD  LETTERS 174 

THE  PROTEST       .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .177 

THE  PETITION 177 

FACT  OR  FANCY?        . 178 

AGRO-DOLCE 179 

THE  BROKEN  TRYST 180 

CASA  SIN  ALMA 180 

A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL  . 181 

MY  PORTRAIT  GALLERY 182 

PAOLO  TO  FRANCESCA 183 

SONNET,  SCOTTISH  BORDER 183 

SONNET,   ON   BEING  ASKED   FOR   AN  AUTOGRAPH   IN 

VENICE 184 

THE  DANCING  BEAR       .        .        .        .        .        .        .184 

THE  MAPLE 185 

NlGHTWATCHES 186 

DEATH  OF  QUEEN  MERCEDES 186 

PRISON  OF  CERVANTES •  187 

To  A  LADY  PLAYING  ON  THE  CITHERN     .        •        •  187 

THE  EYE'S  TREASURY    . 188 

PESSIMOPTIMISM    .        . 189 

THE  BRAKES .  189 

A  FOREBODING •  190 


CONTENTS  vii 

FANCY. 

UNDER  THE  OCTOBER  MAPLES 191 

LOVE'S  CLOCK 192 

ELEANOR  MAKES  MACAROONS 193 

TELEPATHY 195 

SCHERZO 196 

"FRANCISCUS  DE  VERULAMIO  sic  COGITAVTT"  .      197 

AUSPEX .198 

THE  PREGNANT  COMMENT 199 

THE  LESSON 200 

SCIENCE  AND  POETRY 201 

A  NEW  YEAR'S  GREETING 202 

THE  DISCOVERY .      202 

WITH  A  SEASHELL 203 

THE  SECRET 204 

HUMOR  AND  SATIRE. 

FITZ  ADAM'S  STORY 205 

THE  ORIGIN  OF  DIDACTIC  POETRY    ....      226 

THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN 229 

CREDIDIMUS  JOVEM  REGNARE 231 

TEMPORA  MUTANTUR 239 

IN  THE  HALF-WAY  HOUSE 242 

AT  THE  BURNS  CENTENNIAL 245 

IN  AN  ALBUM 253 

AT  THE  COMMENCEMENT  DINNER,  1866        •        .        .  254 
A  PARABLE 258 

EPIGRAMS. 

SAYINGS 259 

INSCRIPTIONS 260 

A  MISCONCEPTION 261 

THE  Boss 261 

SUN-WORSHIP  .        .  • 261 

CHANGED  PERSPECTIVE 261 

WITH  A  PAIR  OF  GLOVES  LOST  IN  A  WAGER       .        .  262 
SIXTY-EIGHTH  BIRTHDAY 262 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 263 

GENERAL  INDEX  OF  TITLES 272 


POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD 

OCTOBER,  1861 

ALONG  a  river-side,  I  know  not  where, 
I  walked  one  night  in  mystery  of  dream ; 
A  chill  creeps  curdling  yet  beneath  my  hair, 
To  think  what  chanced  me  by  the  pallid  gleam 
Of  a  moon-wraith  that  waned  through  haunted  air. 

Pale  fireflies  pulsed  within  the  meadow-mist 
Their  halos,  wavering  thistledowns  of  light ; 
The  loon,  that  seemed  to  mock  some  goblin  tryst, 
Laughed ;  and  the  echoes,  huddling  in  affright, 
Like  Odin's  hounds,  fled  baying  down  the  night. 

Then  all  was  silent,  till  there  smote  my  ear 

A  movement  in  the  stream  that  checked  my  breath : 

Was  it  the  slow  plash  of  a  wading  deer  ? 

But  something  said,  "  This  water  is  of  Death ! 

The  Sisters  wash  a  shroud,  —  ill  thing  to  hear  I  " 

I,  looking  then,  beheld  the  ancient  Three 

Known    to   the   Greek's   and   to   the  Northman's 

creed, 
That  sit  in  shadow  of  the  mystic  Tree, 


2  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

Still  crooning,  as  they  weave  their  endless  brede, 
One  song :  "  Time  was,  Time  is,  and  Time  shall 
be." 

No  wrinkled  crones  were  they,  as  I  had  deemed, 
But  fair  as  yesterday,  to-day,  to-morrow, 
To  mourner,  lover,  poet,  ever  seemed ; 
Something  too  high  for  joy,  too  deep  for  sorrow, 
Thrilled   in   their   tones,    and    from    their    faces 
gleamed. 

"  Still  men  and  nations  reap  as  they  have  strawn," 
So  sang  they,  working  at  their  task  the  while ; 
"  The  fatal  raiment  must  be  cleansed  ere  dawn : 
For  Austria?     Italy?  the  Sea-Queen's  isle? 
O'er  what  quenched  grandeur  must  our  shroud  be 
drawn  ? 

"  Or  is  it  for  a  younger,  fairer  corse, 
That  gathered  States  like  children  round  his  knees, 
That  tamed  the  wave  to  be  his  posting-horse, 
Feller  of  forests,  linker  of  the  seas, 
Bridge-builder,  hammerer,  youngest  son  of  Thor's  ? 

"  What  make  we,  murmur'st  thou  ?  and  what  are 

we? 
When    empires   must    be   wound,  we    bring    the 

shroud, 

The  time-old  web  of  the  implacable  Three : 
Is  it  too  coarse  for  him,  the  young  and  proud  ? 
Earth's  mightiest  deigned  to  wear  \t,  —  why  not 

he?" 


THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD     8 

"  Is  there  no  hope  ?  "  I    moaned,  "  so  strong,  so 

fair! 
Our   Fowler  whose  proud  bird  would  brook  ere- 

while 

No  rival's  swoop  in  all  our  western  air  I 
Gather  the  ravens,  then,  in  funeral  file 
For  him,  life's  morn  yet  golden  in  his  hair  ? 

"  Leave  me  not  hopeless,  ye  unpitying  dames  I 
I  see,  half  seeing.     Tell  me,  ye  who  scanned 
The  stars,  Earth's  elders,  still  must  noblest  aims 
Be  traced  upon  oblivious  ocean-sands  ? 
Must  Hesper  join  the  wailing  ghosts  of  names  ?  " 

"  When  grass-blades  stiffen  with  red  battle-dew, 
Ye  deem  we  choose  the  victor  and  the  slain : 
Say,  choose  we  them  that  shall  be  leal  and  true 
To  the  heart's  longing,  the  high  faith  of  brain  ? 
Yet  there  the  victory  lies,  if  ye  but  knew. 

"  Three   roots    bear   up    Dominion :    Knowledge, 

Will,— 
These    twain    are    strong,   but    stronger    yet   the 

third,  — 

Obedience,  —  't  is  the  great  tap-root  that  still, 
Knit  round  the  rock  of  Duty,  is  not  stirred, 
Though  Heaven-loosed  tempests  spend  their  utmost 

skill. 

"  Is  the  doom  sealed  for  Hesper  ?     'T  is  not  we 
Denounce  it,  but  the  Law  before  all  time : 
The  brave  makes  danger  opportunity ; 


POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

The  waverer,  paltering  with  the  chance  sublime, 
Dwarfs  it  to  peril :  which  shall  Hesper  be  ? 

"  Hath  he  let  vultures  climb  his  eagle's  seat 
To  make  Jove's  bolts  purveyors  of  their  maw  ? 
Hath  he  the  Many's  plaudits  found  more  sweet 
Than  Wisdom  ?  held  Opinion's  wind  for  Law  ? 
Then  let  him  hearken  for  the  doomster's  feet ! 

"  Rough  are  the  steps,  slow-hewn  in  flintiest  rock, 
States  climb  to  power  by  ;  slippery  those  with  gold 
Down  which  they  stumble  to  eternal  mock : 
No  chafferer's  hand  shall  long  the  sceptre  hold, 
Who,  given  a  Fate  to  shape,  would  sell  the  block. 

"  We  sing  old  Sagas,  songs  of  weal  and  woe, 
Mystic  because  too  cheaply  understood  ; 
Dark  sayings  are  not  ours ;  men  hear  and  know, 
See  Evil  weak,  see  strength  alone  in  Good, 
Yet  hope  to  stem  God's  fire  with  walls  of  tow. 

"  Time  Was  unlocks  the  riddle  of  Time  Is, 
That  offers  choice  of  glory  or  of  gloom  ; 
The  solver  makes  Time  Shall  Be  surely  his. 
But  hasten,  Sisters  !  for  even  now  the  tomb 
Grates  its  slow  hinge  and  calls  from  the  abyss." 

"  But  not  for  him,"  I  cried,  "  not  yet  for  him. 
Whose  large  horizon,  westering,  star  by  star 
Wins  from  the  void  to  where  on  Ocean's  rim 
The  sunset  shuts  the  world  with  golden  bar, 
Not  yet  his  thews  shall  fail,  his  eye  grow  dim  ! 


THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD     5 

"  His  shall  be  larger  manhood,  saved  for  those 
That  walk  unblenching  through  the  trial-fires  ; 
Not  suffering,  but  faint  heart,  is  worst  of  woes, 
And  he  no  base-born  son  of  craven  sires, 
Whose  eye  need  blench  confronted  with  his  foes. 

"  Tears  may  be  ours,  but  proud,  for  those  who  win 
Death's  royal  purple  in  the  f  oeman's  lines ; 
Peace,  too,  brings  tears ;  and  mid  the  battle-din, 
The  wiser  ear  some  text  of  God  divines, 
For  the  sheathed  blade  may  rust  with  darker  sin. 

"  God,  give  us  peace !  not  such  as  lulls  to  sleep, 
But  sword  on  thigh,  and  brow  with  purpose  knit ! 
And  let  our  Ship  of  State  to  harbor  sweep, 
Her  ports  all  up,  her  battle-lanterns  lit, 
And  her   leashed    thunders   gathering    for   their 
leap ! " 

So   cried  I  with  clenched   hands   and   passionate 

pain, 

Thinking  of  dear  ones  by  Potomac's  side ; 
Again  the  loon  laughed  mocking,  and  again 
The  echoes  bayed  far  down  the  night  and  died, 
While  waking  I  recalled  my  wandering  brain. 


6  POEMS   OF   THE  WAR 

TWO  SCENES  FROM  THE  LIFE  OF  BLONDEL 

AUTUMN,  1863 
SCENE  I.  —  Near  a  castle  in  Germany* 

'T  WERE  no  hard  task,  perchance,  to  win 

The  popular  laurel  for  my  song1 ; 
'T  were  only  to  comply  with  sin, 

And  own  the  crown,  though  snatched  by  wrong: 
Rather  Truth's  chaplet  let  me  wear, 

Though  sharp  as  death  its  thorns  may  sting ; 
Loyal  to  Loyalty,  I  bear 

No  badge  but  of  my  rightful  king. 

Patient  by  town  and  tower  I  wait, 

Or  o'er  the  blustering  moorland  go  ; 
I  buy  no  praise  at  cheaper  rate, 

Or  what  faint  hearts  may  fancy  so  ; 
For  me,  no  joy  in  lady's  bower, 

Or  hall,  or  tourney,  will  I  sing, 
Till  the  slow  stars  wheel  round  the  hour 

That  crowns  my  hero  and  my  king. 

While  all  the  land  runs  red  with  strife, 

And  wealth  is  won  by  pedler-crinies, 
Let  who  will  find  content  in  life 

And  tinkle  in  unmanly  rhymes  ; 
I  wait  and  seek ;  through  dark  and  light, 

Safe  in  my  heart  my  hope  I  bring, 
Till  I  once  more  my  faith  may  plight 

To  him  my  whole  soul  owns  her  king. 


TWO  SCENES  FROM  LIFE   OF  BLONDEL     7 

When  power  is  filched  by  drone  and  dolt, 

And,  with  caught  breath  and  flashing  eye, 
Her  knuckles  whitening  round  the  bolt, 

Vengeance  leans  eager  from  the  sky, 
While  this  and  that  the  people  guess, 

And  to  the  skirts  of  praters  cling, 
Who  court  the  crowd  they  should  compress, 

I  turn  in  scorn  to  seek  my  king. 

Shut  in  what  tower  of  darkling  chance 

Or  dungeon  of  a  narrow  doom,' 
Dream'st  thou  of  battle-axe  and  lance 

That  for  the  Cross  make  crashing  room  ? 
Come  !  with  hushed  breath  the  battle  waits 

In  the  wild  van  thy  mace's  swing  ; 
While  doubters  parley  with  their  fates, 

Make  thou  thine  own  and  ours,  my  king ! 

O,  strong  to  keep  upright  the  old, 

And  wise  to  buttress  with  the  new, 
Prudent,  as  only  are  the  bold, 

Clear-eyed,  as  only  are  the  true, 
To  foes  benign,  to  friendship  stern, 

Intent  to  imp  Law's  broken  wing, 
Who  would  not  die,  if  death  might  earn 

The  right  to  kiss  thy  hand,  my  king  ? 

SCENE  II.  —  An  Inn  near  the  Chateau  of  Chains. 

WELL,  the  whole  thing  is  over,  and  here  I  sit 
With  one   arm  in  a  sling  and  a  milk-score   of 
gashes, 


8  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

And  this  flagon  of  Cyprus  must  e'en  warm  my  wit, 
Since  what 's   left  of   youth's   flame   is  a   head 

flecked  with  ashes. 
I  remember  I  sat  in  this  very  same  inn,  — 

I  was  young  then,  and  one  young  man  thought  I 

was  handsome,  — 

I  had  found  out  what  prison  King  Eichard  was  in, 
And  was  spurring  for  England  to  push  on  the 
ransom. 

How  I  scorned  the   dull  souls  that  sat  guzzling 

around 

And  knew  not  my  secret  nor  recked  my  deri- 
sion ! 
Let  the  world  sink  or  swim,  John  or  Richard  be 

crowned, 

All  one,  so  the  beer-tax  got  lenient  revision. 
How  little  I  dreamed,  as  I  tramped  up  and  down, 
That  granting  our  wish  one  of   Fate's  saddest 

jokes  is ! 
I  had  mine  with  a  vengeance,  —  my  king  got  his 

crown, 

And  made  his  whole  business   to   break  other 
folks's. 

I  might  as  well  join  in  the  safe  old  turn,  turn  : 
A  hero  's  an  excellent  loadstar,  —  but,  bless  ye, 

What  infinite  odds  'twixt  a  hero  to  come 
And  your  only  too  palpable  hero  in  esse  I 

Precisely  the  odds  (such  examples  are  rife) 

'Twixt  the  poem  conceived  and  the   rhyme  we 
make  show  of, 


TWO   SCENES  FROM  LIFE  OF  BLONDEL     9 

'Twixt  the  boy's  morning  dream  and  the  wake-up 

of  life, 

Twixt  the  Blondel  God  meant  and  a  Blondel 
I  know  of ! 

But  the  world's  better  off,  I'm  convinced  of  it 

riow, 
Than  if  heroes,  like  buns,  could  be  bought  for 

a  penny 

To  regard  all  mankind  as  their  haltered  milch-cow, 
And  just  care  for  themselves.     Well,  God  cares 

for  the  many ; 

For  somehow  the  poor  old  Earth  blunders  along, 
Each  son  of  hers  adding  his  mite  of  unfitness, 
And,  choosing  the  sure  way  of  coming  out  wrong, 
Gets  to  port  as  the  next  generation  will  wit- 
ness. 

You   think  her  old   ribs  have  come   all  crashing 

through, 
If  a  whisk  of  Fate's  broom  snap  your  cobweb 

asunder ; 

But  her  rivets  were  clinched  by  a  wiser  than  you, 
And  our  sins  cannot  push  the  Lord's  right  hand 

from  under. 
Better  one  honest  man  who   can  wait  for  God's 

mind 
In  our  poor  shifting  scene  here  though  heroes 

were  plenty ! 

Better  one  bite,  at  forty,  of  Truth's  bitter  rind, 
Than  the  hot  wine  that  gushed  from  the  vintage 
of  twenty ! 


10  POEMS   OF  THE  WAR 

I  see  it  all  now  :  when  I  wanted  a  king, 

'T  was  the  kingship  that  failed  in  myself  I  was 

seeking,  — 
'T  is  so  much  less  easy  to  do  than  to  sing, 

So  much  simpler  to  reign  by  a  proxy  than  be 

king! 

Yes,  I  think  I  do  see :  after  all  's  said  and  sung, 
Take  this  one  rule  of  life  and  you  never  will  rue 

it,— 
'T  is  but  do  your  own   duty  and  hold  your  own 

tongue 
And  Blondel  were  royal  himself,  if  he  knew  it ! 


MEMORISE  POSITUM 

R.  G.  SHAW 

I. 

BENEATH  the  trees, 
My  lifelong  friends  in  this  dear  spot, 
Sad  now  for  eyes  that  see  them  not, 

I  hear  the  autumnal  breeze 
Wake  the  dry  leaves  to  sigh  for  gladness  gone, 
Whispering  vague  omens  of  oblivion, 

Hear,  restless  as  the  seas, 
Time's  grim   feet  rustling  through   the   withered 

grace 
Of  many  a  spreading  realm  and  strong-stemmed 

race, 
Even  as  my  own  through  these. 


MEMORISE  POSITUM  11 

Why  make  we  moan 
For  loss  that  doth  enrich  us  yet 
With  upward  yearnings  of  regret  ? 

Bleaker  than  unmossed  stone 
Our  lives  were  but  for  this  immortal  gain 
Of  unstilled  longing  and  inspiring  pain  ! 

As  thrills  of  long-hushed  tone 
Live  in  the  viol,  so  our  souls  grow  fine 
With  keen  vibrations  from  the  touch  divine 

Of  noble  natures  gone. 

'T  were  indiscreet 
To  vex  the  shy  and  sacred  grief 
With  harsh  obtrusions  of  relief  ; 

Yet,  Verse,  with  noiseless  feet, 
Go  whisper :  "  This  death  hath  far  choicer  ends 
Than  slowly  to  impearl  in  hearts  of  friends ; 

These  obsequies  't  is  meet 
Not  to  seclude  in  closets  of  the  heart, 
But,  church-like,  with  wide  doorways,  to  impart 

Even  to  the  heedless  street." 

n. 

Brave,  good,  and  true, 
I  see  him  stand  before  me  now, 
And  read  again  on  that  young  brow, 

Where  every  hope  was  new, 

How  sweet  were  life  !     Yet,  by  the  mouth  firm-set, 
And  look  made  up  for  Duty's  utmost  debt, 

I  could  divine  he  knew 

That  death  within  the  sulphurous  hostile  lines, 
In  the  mere  wreck  of  nobly-pitched  designs, ' 

Plucks  heart' s-ease,  and  not  rue. 


12  POEMS   OF   THE  WAR 

Happy  their  end 

Who  vanish  down  life's  evening  stream 
Placid  as  swans  that  drift  in  dream 

Round  the  next  river-bend  ! 
Happy  long  life,  with  honor  at  the  close, 
Friends'  painless   tears,  the   softened   thought   o£ 

foes! 

And  yet,  like  him,  to  spend 
All  at  a  gush,  keeping  our  first  faith  sure 
From    mid -life's   doubt    and   eld's    contentment 

poor, 
What  more  could  Fortune  send  ? 

Eight  in  the  van, 

On  the  red  rampart's  slippery  sweU, 
With  heart  that  beat  a  charge,  he  fell 

Foeward,  as  fits  a  man ; 

But  the  high  soul  burns  on  to  light  men's  feet 
Where  death  for  noble  ends  makes  dying  sweet ; 

His  life  her  crescent's  span 
Orbs  full  with  share  in  their  undarkening  days 
Who  ever  climbed  the  battailous  steeps  of  praise 

Since  valor's  praise  began. 

in. 

His  life's  expense 
Hath  won  him  coeternal  youth 
With  the  immaculate  prime  of  Truth ; 

While  we,  who  make  pretence 
At  living  on,  and  wake  and  eat  and  sleep, 
And  life's  stale  trick  by  repetition  keep, 
Our  fickle  permanence 


MEMORISE  POSITUM  13 

(A  poor  leaf-shadow  on  a  brook,  whose  play 
Of  busy  idlesse  ceases  with  our  day) 
Is  the  mere  cheat  of  sense. 

We  bide  our  chance, 
Unhappy,  and  make  terms  with  Fate 
A  little  more  to  let  us  wait ; 

He  leads  for  aye  the  advance, 
Hope's    forlorn  -  hopes    that    plant   the   desperate 

good 
For  nobler  Earths  and  days  of  manlier  mood ; 

Our  wall  of  circumstance 
Cleared  at  a  bound,  he  flashes  o'er  the  fight, 
A  saintly  shape  of  fame,  to  cheer  the  right 
And  steel  each  wavering  glance. 

I  write  of  one, 

While  with  dim  eyes  I  think  of  three ; 
Who  weeps  not  others  fair  and  brave  as  he  ? 

Ah,  when  the  fight  is  won, 

Dear  Land,  whom  triflers  now  make  bold  to  scorn, 
(Thee  !    from    whose    forehead    Earth  awaits   her 

morn,) 

How  nobler  shall  the  sun 

Flame  in  thy  sky,  how  braver  breathe  thy  air, 
That  thou  bred'st  children  who  for  thee  could  dare 

And  die  as  thine  have  done ! 
1863. 


14         POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 
ON  BOARD  THE  '76 

WRITTEN   FOR    MR.    BRYANT'S    SEVENTIETH    BIRTHDAY 
NOVEMBER  3,  1864 

OUR  ship  lay  tumbling  in  an  angry  sea, 

Her  rudder  gone,  her  mainmast  o'er  the  side ; 
Her  scuppers,  from  the  waves'  clutch  staggering- 
free, 
Trailed  threads  of  priceless  crimson  through  the 

tide ; 

Sails,  shrouds,  and  spars  with  pirate  cannon  torn, 
We  lay,  awaiting  morn. 

Awaiting  morn,  such  morn  as  mocks  despair ; 

And  she  that  bare  the  promise  of  the  world 
Within  her  sides,  now  hopeless,  helmless,  bare, 

At  random  o'er  the  wildering  waters  hurled ; 
The  reek  of  battle  drifting  slow  alee 
Not  sullener  than  we. 

Morn  came  at  last  to  peer  into  our  woe, 

When  lo,  a  sail !     Now  surely  help  was  nigh  ; 
The  red  cross  flames  aloft,  Christ's  pledge  ;  but  no, 

Her  black  guns  grinning  hate,  she  rushes  by 
And   hails   us :  — "  Gains  the   leak !    Ay,    so   we 

thought ! 
Sink,  then,  with  curses  fraught !  " 

I  leaned  against  my  gun  still  angry-hot, 

And  my  lids  tingled  with  the  tears  held  back ; 


ON  BOARD   THE   '76  J5 

This  scorn  methotight  was  crueller  than  shot : 

The  manly  death-grip  in  the  battle-wrack, 
Yard-arm  to  yard-arm,  were  more  friendly  far 
Than  such  fear-smothered  war. 

There  our  foe  wallowed,  like  a  wounded  brute 
The  fiercer  for  his  hurt.     What  now  were  best  ? 

Once  more  tug  bravely  at  the  peril's  root, 

Though  death  came  with  it  ?     Or  evade  the  test 

If  right  or  wrong  in  this  God's  world  of  ours 
Be  leagued  with  mightier  powers  ? 

Some,  faintly  loyal,  felt  their  pulses  lag 

With  the  slow  beat  that  doubts  and  then  de- 
spairs ; 
Some,  caitiff,  would  have  struck  the  starry  flag 

That  knits  us  with  our  past,  and  makes  us  heirs 
Of  deeds  high-hearted  as  were  ever  done 
'Neath  the  all-seeing  sun. 

But  there  was  one,  the  Singer  of  our  crew, 

Upon  whose  head  Age  waved  his  peaceful  sign, 

But  whose  red  heart' s-blood  no  surrender  knew ; 
And  couchant  under  brows  of  massive  line, 

The  eyes,  like  guns  beneath  a  parapet, 

Watched,  charged  with  lightnings  yet. 

The  voices  of  the  hills  did  his  obey ; 

The  torrents  flashed  and  tumbled  in  his  song ; 
He  brought  our  native  fields  from  far  away, 

Or  set  us  'mid  the  innumerable  throng 
Of  dateless  woods,  or  where  we  heard  the  calm 
Old  homestead's  evening  psalm. 


10  POEMS   OF  THE  WAR 

But  now  he  sang  of  faith  to  things  unseen, 
Of  freedom's  birthright  given  to  us  in  trust ; 

And  words  of  doughty  cheer  he  spoke  between, 
That  made  all  earthly  fortune  seem  as  dust, 

Matched  with  that  duty,  old  as  Time  and  new, 
Of  being  brave  and  true. 

We,  listening,  learned  what  makes  the  might  of 

words,  — 

Manhood  to  back  them,  constant  as  a  star ; 
His  voice  rammed  home   our  cannon,   edged  our 

swords, 
And    sent   our  boarders  shouting ;    shroud  and 

spar 
Heard   him   and    stiffened ;  the    sails   heard,   and 

wooed 
The  winds  with  loftier  mood. 

In  our  dark  hours  he  manned  our  guns  again ; 
Remanned    ourselves    from  his  own   manhood's 

stores ; 
Pride,   honor,    country,   throbbed  through  all   his 

strain  ; 

And  shall  we  praise  ?     God's  praise  was  his  be- 
fore ; 

And  on  our  futile  laurels  he  looks  down, 
Himself  our  bravest  crown. 


COMMEMORATION  ODE  17 

ODE  RECITED  AT  THE  HARVARD  COMMEM- 
ORATION 

JULY  21,  1865 
I. 

WEAK-WINGED  is  song, 

Nor  aims  at  that  clear-ethered  height 

Whither  the  brave  deed  climbs  for  light : 

We  seem  to  do  them  wrong, 
Bringing  our  robin's-leaf  to  deck  their  hearse 
Who  in  warm  life-blood  wrote  their  nobler  verse, 
Our  trivial  song  to  honor  those  who  come 
With  ears  attuned  to  strenuous  trump  and  drum, 
And  shaped  in  squadron-strophes  their  desire, 
Live  battle-odes  whose  lines  were  steel  and  fire : 

Yet  sometimes  feathered  words  are  strong, 
A  gracious  memory  to  buoy  up  and  save 
From  Lethe's  dreamless  ooze,  the  common  grave 

Of  the  un venturous  throng. 

II. 

To-day  our  Reverend  Mother  welcomes  back 
Her  wisest  Scholars,  those  who  understood 
The  deeper  teaching  of  her  mystic  tome, 

And  offered  their  fresh  lives  to  make  it  good : 

No  lore  of  Greece  or  Rome, 
No  science  peddling  with  the  names  of  things, 
Or  reading  stars  to  find  inglorious  fates, 

Can  lift  our  life  with  wings 
Far  from  Death's  idle  gulf  that  for  the  many  waits, 

And  lengthen  out  our  dates 


18  POEMS   OF   THE  WAR 

With  that  clear  fame  whose  memory  sings 

In  manly  hearts  to  come,  and  nerves  them  and 

dilates : 

Nor  such  thy  teaching,  Mother  of  us  all  I 
Not  such  the  trumpet-call 
Of  thy  diviner  mood, 
That  could  thy  sons  entice 
From  happy  homes  and  toils,  the  fruitful  nest 
Of  those  half-virtues  which  the  world  calls  best, 
Into  War's  tumult  rude  ; 
But  rather  far  that  stern  device 
The  sponsors  chose  that  round  thy  cradle  stood 
In  the  dimj  un ventured  wood, 
The  YERITAS  that  lurks  beneath 
The  letter's  unprolific  sheath, 
Life  of  whate'er  makes  life  worth  living, 
Seed-grain  of  high  emprise,  immortal  food, 

One  heavenly  thing  whereof  earth  hath  the  giv- 
ing. 

III. 

Many  loved  Truth,  and  lavished  life's  best  oil 
Amid  the  dust  of  books  to  find  her, 

Content  at  last,  for  guerdon  of  their  toil, 

With  the  cast  mantle  she  hath  left  behind  her. 
Many  in  sad  faith  sought  for  her, 
Many  with  crossed  hands  sighed  for  her ; 
But  these,  our  brothers,  fought  for  her , 
At  life's  dear  peril  wrought  for  her, 
So  loved  her  that  they  died  for  her, 
Tasting  the  raptured  fleetness 
Of  her  divine  completeness : 


COMMEMORATION  ODE  19 

Their  higher  instinct  knew 
Those  love  her  best  who  to  themselves  are  true, 
And  what  they  dare  to  dream  of,  dare  to  do ; 

They  followed  her  and  found  her 

Where  all  may  hope  to  find, 
Not  in  the  ashes  of  the  burnt-out  mind, 
But  beautiful,  with  danger's  sweetness  round  her. 

Where  faith  made  whole  with  deed 

Breathes  its  awakening  breath 

Into  the  lifeless  creed, 

They  saw  her  plumed  and  mailed, 

With  sweet,  stern  face  unveiled, 
And  all-repaying  eyes,  look  proud  on  them  in  death. 

IV. 

Our  slender  life  runs  rippling  by,  and  glides 
Into  the  silent  hollow  of  the  past ; 

What  is  there  that  abides 
To  make  the  next  age  better  for  the  last  ? 

Is  earth  too  poor  to  give  us 
Something  to  live  for  here  that  shall  outlive  us  ? 

Some  more  substantial  boon 
Than  such  as  flows  and  ebbs  with  Fortune's  fickle 

moon? 

The  little  that  we  see 
From  doubt  is  never  free  ; 
The  little  that  we  do 
Is  but  half -nobly  true  ; 
With  our  laborious  hiving 

What  men  call  treasure,  and  the  gods  call  dross, 
Life  seems  a  jest  of  Fate's  contriving, 
Only  secure  in  every  one's  conniving, 


20  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

A  long  account  of  nothings  paid  with  loss, 
Where  we  poor  puppets,  jerked  by  unseen  wires, 

After  our  little  hour  of  strut  and  rave, 
With  all  our  pasteboard  passions  and  desires, 
Loves,  hates,  ambitions,  and  immortal  fires, 
Are  tossed  pell-mell  together  in  the  grave. 
But  stay !  no  age  was  e'er  degenerate, 
Unless  men  held  it  at  too  cheap  a  rate, 
For  in  our  likeness  still  we  shape  our  fate. 

Ah,  there  is  something  here 
Unfathomed  by  the  cynic's  sneer, 
Something  that  gives  our  feeble  light 
A  high  immunity  from  Night, 
Something  that  leaps  life's  narrow  bars 
To  claim  its  birthright  with  the  hosts  of  heaven  ; 
A  seed  of  sunshine  that  can  leaven 
Our  earthy  dulness  with  the  beams  of  stars, 

And  glorify  our  clay 

With  light  from  fountains  elder  than  the  Day ; 
A  conscience  more  divine  than  we, 
A  gladness  fed  with  secret  tears, 
A  vexing,  forward-reaching  sense 
Of  some  more  noble  permanence  ; 

A  light  across  the  sea, 

Which  haunts  the  soul  and  will  not  let  it  be, 
Still  beaconing  from  the  heights  of  undegenerate 
years. 

v. 

Whither  leads  the  path 

To  ampler  fates  that  leads  ? 

Not  down  through  flowery  meads, 


COMMEMORATION   ODE  '  21 

To  reap  an  aftermath 
Of  youth's  vainglorious  weeds, 
But  up  the  steep,  amid  the  wrath 
And  shock  of  deadly-hostile  creeds, 
Where  the  world's  best  hope  and  stay 
By  battle's  flashes  gropes  a  desperate  way, 
And  every  turf  the  fierce  foot  clings  to  bleeds. 
Peace  hath  her  not  ignoble  wreath, 
Ere  yet  the  sharp,  decisive  word 
Light  the  black  lips  of  cannon,  and  the  sword 

Dreams  in  its  easeful  sheath ; 
But  some  day  the  live  coal  behind  the  thought, 
Whether  from  Baal's  stone  obscene, 
Or  from  the  shrine  serene 
Of  God's  pure  altar  brought, 
Bursts  up  in  flame  ;  the  war  of  tongue  and  pen 
Learns  with  what  deadly  purpose  it  was  fraught, 
And,  helpless  in  the  fiery  passion  caught, 
Shakes  all  the  pillared  state  with  shock  of  men : 
Some  day  the  soft  Ideal  that  we  wooed 
Confronts  us  fiercely,  foe-beset,  pursued, 
And  cries  reproachful :  "  Was  it,  then,  my  praise, 
And  not  myself  was  loved  ?     Prove  now  thy  truth ; 
I  claim  of  thee  the  promise  of  thy  youth  ; 
Give  me  thy  life,  or  cower  in  empty  phrase, 
The  victim  of  thy  genius,  not  its  mate !  " 
Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 
And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed 
As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 
So  bountiful  is  Fate  ; 
But  then  to  stand  beside  her, 
When  craven  churls  deride  her, 


22  POEMS   OF  THE  WAR 

To  front  a  lie  in  arms  and  not  to  yield, 
This  shows,  methinks,  God's  plan 
And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 
Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds, 
Who  stands  self-poised  on  manhood's  solid 

earth, 

Not  forced  to  frame  excuses  for  his  birth, 
Fed  from  within  with  all  the  strength  he  needs. 

VI. 

Such  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief, 

Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led, 
With  ashes  on  her  head, 
Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief  : 
Forgive  me,  if  from  present  things  I  turn 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and  burn, 
And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-honored  urn. 
Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 
And  cannot  make  a  man 
Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 
Repeating  us  by  rote : 

For  him  her  Old- World  moulds  aside  she  threw, 
And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the  breast 

Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new, 
Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God,  and  true. 

How  beautiful  to  see 

Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed, 
Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved  to  lead ; 
One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed  to  be, 
Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth, 
But  by  his  clear-grained  human  worth, 


COMMEMORATION  ODE  23 

And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity  ! 

They  knew  that  outward  grace  is  dust ; 
They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering  skill, 

And  supple-tempered  will 
That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring  again  and 

thrust. 

His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak  of  mind, 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy  bars, 
A  sea-mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapors  blind  ; 
Broad  prairie  rather,  genial,  level-lined, 
Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  human  kind, 
Yet  also  nigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of  loftiest  stars. 

Nothing  of  Europe  here, 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornward  still, 

Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 
Could  Nature's  equal  scheme  deface 
And  thwart  her  genial  will ; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder  race, 
And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with  us  face  to 

face. 

I  praise  him  not ;  it  were  too  late  ; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must  be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such  as  the  Present  gives,  and  cannot  wait, 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  he  : 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
•    And  can  his  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime, 

Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and  drums, 


24  POEMS   OF  THE  WAR 

Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 

But  at  last  silence  comes  ; 
These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a  tower, 
Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame, 

The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing  man, 
Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise,  not  blame, 
New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American. 

VII. 

Long  as  man's  hope  insatiate  can  discern 
Or  only  guess  some  more  inspiring  goal 
Outside  of  Self,  enduring  as  the  pole, 
Along  whose  course  the  flying  axles  burn 
Of  spirits  bravely-pitched,  earth's  manlier  brood; 

Long  as  below  we  cannot  find 
The  meed  that  stills  the  inexorable  mind ; 
So  long  this  faith  to  some  ideal  Good, 
Under  whatever  mortal  names  it  masks, 
Freedom,  Law,  Country,  this  ethereal  mood 

That  thanks  the  Fates  for  their  severer  tasks, 
Feeling  its  challenged  pulses  leap, 
While  others  skulk  in  subterfuges  cheap, 

And,  set  in  Danger's  van,  has  all  the  boon  it  asks, 
Shall  win  man's  praise  and  woman's  love, 
Shall  be  a  wisdom  that  we  set  above 

All  other  skills  and  gifts  to  culture  dear, 

A  virtue  round  whose  forehead  we  inwreathe 
Laurels  that  with  a  living  passion  breathe 

When  other  crowns  grow,  while  we  twine  them, 

sear. 
What  brings  us  thronging  these   high  rites  to 


COMMEMORATION  ODE  25 

And  seal  these  hours  the  noblest  of  our  year, 
Save  that  our  brothers  found  this  better  way  ? 

VIII. 

We  sit  here  in  the  Promised  Land 
That  flows  with  Freedom's  honey  and  milk ; 
But  't  was  they  won  it,  sword  in  hand, 
Making  the  nettle  danger  soft  for  us  as  silk. 
We  welcome  back  our  bravest  and  our  best ;  — 
Ah  me  !  not  all !  some  come  not  with  the  rest, 
Who  went  forth  brave  and  bright  as  any  here ! 
I  strive  to  mix  some  gladness  with  my  strain, 
But  the  sad  strings  complain, 
And  will  not  please  the  ear : 
I  sweep  them  for  a  psean,  but  they  wane 

Again  and  yet  again 
Into  a  dirge,  and  die  away,  in  pain. 
In  these  brave  ranks  I  only  see  the  gaps, 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  whom  the  dumb  turf  wraps, 
Dark  to  the  triumph  which  they  died  to  gain  : 
Fitlier  may  others  greet  the  living, 
For  me  the  past  is  unforgiving ; 
I  with  uncovered  head 
Salute  the  sacred  dead, 

Who  went,  and  who  return  not.  —  Say  not  so ! 
'T  is  not  the  grapes  of  Canaan  that  repay, 
But  the  high  faith  that  failed  not  by  the  way ; 
Virtue  treads  paths  that  end  not  in  the  grave ; 
No  bar  of  endless  night  exiles  the  brave ; 

And  to  the  saner  mind 

We  rather  seem  the  dead  that  stayed  behind. 
Blow,  trumpets,  all  your  exultations  blow ! 


26  POEMS   OF  THE   WAR 

For  never  shall  their  aureoled  presence  lack : 
I  see  them  muster  in  a  gleaming  row, 
With  ever- youthful  brows  that  nobler  show ; 
We  find  in  our  dull  road  their  shining  track ; 

In  every  nobler  mood 
We  feel  the  orient  of  their  spirit  glow, 
Part  of  our  life's  unalterable  good, 
Of  all  our  saintlier  aspiration  ; 

They  come  transfigured  back, 
Secure  from  change  in  their  high-hearted  ways, 
Beautiful  evermore,  and  with  the  rays 
Of  morn  on  their  white  Shields  of  Expectation ! 


But  is  there  hope  to  save 
Even  this  ethereal  essence  from  the  grave  ? 
What  ever  'scaped  Oblivion's  subtle  wrong 
Save  a  few  clarion  names,  or  golden  threads  of  song? 

Before  my  musing  eye  . 
The  mighty  ones  of  old  sweep  by, 
Disvoiced  now  and  insubstantial  things, 
As  noisy  once  as  we ;  poor  ghosts  of  kings, 
Shadows  of  empire  wholly  gone  to  dust, 
And  many  races,  nameless  long  ago, 
To  darkness  driven  by  that  imperious  gust 
Of  ever-rushing  Time  that  here  doth  blow : 
O  visionary  world,  condition  strange, 
Where  naught  abiding  is  but  only  Change, 
Where  the  deep-bolted  stars  themselves  still  shift 

and  range ! 

Shall  we  to  more  continuance  make  pretence  ? 
Renown  builds  tombs ;  a  life-estate  is  Wit ; 


COMMEMORATION  ODE  27 

And,  bit  by  bit, 

The  cunning  years  steal  all  from  us  but  woe? ; 
Leaves  are  we,  whose  decays  no  harvest  sow. 

But,  when  we  vanish  hence, 
Shall  they  lie  forceless  in  the  dark  below, 
Save  to  make  green  their  little  length  of  sods, 
Or  deepen  pansies  for  a  year  or  two, 
Who  now  to  us  are  shining-sweet  as  gods  ? 
Was  dying  all  they  had  the  skill  to  do  ? 
That  were  not  fruitless  :  but  the  Soul  resents 
Such  short-lived  service,  as  if  blind  events 
Ruled  without  her,  or  earth  could  so  endure ; 
She  claims  a  more  divine  investiture 
Of  longer  tenure  than  Fame's  airy  rents ; 
Whate'er  she  touches  doth  her  nature  share ; 
Her  inspiration  haunts  the  ennobled  air, 

Gives  eyes  to  mountains  blind, 
Ears  to  the  deaf  earth,  voices  to  the  wind, 
And  her  clear  trump  .sings  succor  everywhere 
By  lonely  bivouacs  to  the  wakeful  mind ; 
For  soul  inherits  all  that  soul  could  dare : 

Yea,  Manhood  hath  a  wider  span 
And  larger  privilege  of  life  than  man. 
The  single  deed,  the  private  sacrifice, 
So  radiant  now  through  proudly-hidden  tears, 
Is  covered  up  erelong  from  mortal  eyes 
With  thoughtless  drift  of  the  deciduous  years ; 
But  that  high  privilege  that  makes  all  men  peers, 
That  leap  of  heart  whereby  a  people  rise 

Up  to  a  noble  anger's  height, 

And,  flamed  on  by  the  Fates,  not  shrink,  but  grow 
more  bright, 


28  POEMS   OF  THE  WAR 

That  swift  validity  in  noble  veins, 

Of  choosing  danger  and  disdaining  shame, 

Of  being  set  on  flame 
By  the  pure  fire  that  flies  all  contact  base, 
But  wraps  its  chosen  with  angelic  might, 

These  are  imperishable  gains, 
Sure  as  the  sun,  medicinal  as  light, 
These  hold  great  futures  in  their  lusty  reins 
And  certify  to  earth  a  new  imperial  race.         • 

x. 

Who  now  shall  sneer  ? 
Who  dare  again  to  say  we  trace 
Our  lines  to  a  plebeian  race  ? 

Eoundhead  and  Cavalier ! 

Dumb  are  those  names  erewhile  in  battle  loud ; 
Dream-footed  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 

They  flit  across  the  ear : 
That  is  best  blood  that  hath  most  iron  in  't. 
To  edge  resolve  with,  pouring  without  stint 

For  what  makes  manhood  dear. 
Tell  us  not  of  Plantagenets, 
Hapsburgs,  and  Guelfs,  whose  thin  bloods  crawl 
Down  from  some  victor  in  a  border-brawl ! 

How  poor  their  outworn  coronets, 
Matched  with  one  leaf  of  that  plain  civic  wreath 
Our  brave  for  honor's  blazon  shall  bequeath, 

Through  whose  desert  a  rescued  Nation  sets 
Her  heel  on  treason,  and  the  trumpet  hears 
Shout  victory,  tingling  Europe's  sullen  ears 
With  vain  resentments  and  more  vain  regrets  I 


COMMEMORATION  ODE  29 

XI. 

Not  in  anger,  not  in  pride, 
Pure  from  passion's  mixture  rude 
Ever  to  base  earth  allied, 
But  with  far-heard  gratitude, 
Still  with  heart  and  voice  renewed, 
To  heroes  living  and  dear  martyrs  dead, 
The  strain  should  close  that  consecrates  our  brave. 
Lift  the  heart  and  lift  the  head ! 
Lofty  be  its  mood  and  grave, 
Not  without  a  martial  ring, 
Not  without  a  prouder  tread 
And  a  peal  of  exultation : 
Little  right  has  he  to  sing 
Through  whose  heart  in  such  an  hour 
Beats  no  march  of  conscious  power, 
Sweeps  no  tumult  of  elation ! 
'T  is  no  Man  we  celebrate, 
By  his  country's  victories  great, 
1     A  hero  half,  and  half  the  whim  of  Fate, 
But  the  pith  and  marrow  of  a  Nation 
Drawing  force  from  all  her  men, 
Highest,  humblest,  weakest,  all, 
For  her  time  of  need,  and  then 
Pulsing  it  again  through  them, 
Till  the  basest  can  no  longer  cower, 
Feeling  his  soul  spring  up  divinely  tall, 
Touched  but  in  passing  by  her  mantle-hem. 
Come  back,  then,  noble  pride,  for  't  is  her  dower  I 
How  could  poet  ever  tower, 
If  his  passions,  hopes,  and  fears, 


30  POEMS   OF   THE  WAR 

If  his  triumphs  and  his  tears, 
Kept  not  measure  with  his  people  ? 
Boom,  cannon,  boom  to  all  the  winds  and  waves ! 
Clash  out,  glad  bells,  from  every  rocking  steeple  ! 
Banners,  adance  with  triumph,  bend  your  staves  ! 
And  from  every  mountain-peak 
Let  beacon-fire  to  answering  beacon  speak, 
Katahdin  tell  Monadnock,  Whiteface  he, 
And  so  leap  on  in  light  from  sea  to  sea, 
Till  the  glad  news  be  sent 
Across  a  kindling  continent, 
Making   earth   feel    more   firm   and    air   breathe 

braver : 
"  Be  proud  !  for  she  is  saved,  and  all  have  helped 

to  save  her ! 

She  that  lifts  up  the  manhood  of  the  poor, 
She  of  the  open  soul  and  open  door, 
With  room  about  her  hearth  for  all  mankind  ! 
The  fire  is  dreadful  in  her  eyes  no  more  ; 
From  her  bold  front  the  helm  she  doth  un- 
bind, 

Sends  all  her  handmaid  armies  back  to  spin, 
And  bids  her  navies,  that  so  lately  hurled 
Their  crashing  battle,  hold  their  thunders  in, 
Swimming  like  birds  of  calm  along  the  un- 

harmful  shore. 

No  challenge  sends  she  to  the  elder  world, 
That  looked  askance  and  hated  ;  a  light  scorn 
Plays  o'er  her  mouth,  as  round   her  mighty 

knees 

She  calls  her  children  back,  and  waits  the  morn 
Of  nobler  day,  enthroned  between  her  subject  seas." 


COMMEMORATION  ODE  31 

XII. 

Bow  down,  dear  Land,  for  thou  hast  found  release  ! 
Thy  God,  in  these  distempered  days, 
Hath  taught  thee  the  sure  wisdom  of  His  ways, 
And   through   thine    enemies   hath   wrought    thy 
peace ! 

Bow  down  in  prayer  and  praise ! 
No  poorest  in  thy  borders  but  may  now 
Lift  to  the  juster  skies  a  man's  enfranchised  brow. 
O  Beautiful !  my  Country  !  ours  once  more  I 
Smoothing  thy  gold  of  war-dishevelled  hair 
O'er  such  sweet  brows  as  never  other  wore, 

And  letting  thy  set  lips, 

Freed  from  wrath's  pale  eclipse, 
The  rosy  edges  of  their  smile  lay  bare, 
What  words  divine  of  lover  or  of  poet 
Could  tell  our  love  and  make  thee  know  it, 
Among  the  Nations  bright  beyond  compare  ? 

What  were  our  lives  without  thee  ? 

What  all  our  lives  to  save  thee  ? 

We  reck  not  what  we  gave  thee ; 

We  will  not  dare  to  doubt  thee, 
But  ask  whatever  else,  and  we  will  dare  1 


32  U  ENVOI 


L'ENVOI 

TO   THE  MUSE 

WHITHER  ?    Albeit  I  follow  fast, 

In  all  life's  circuit  I  but  find, 
Not  where  thou  art,  but  where  thou  wast, 

Sweet  beckoner,  more  fleet  than  wind  ! 
I  haunt  the  pine-dark  solitudes, 

With  soft  brown  silence  carpeted, 
And  plot  to  snare  thee  in  the  woods  : 

Peace  I  o'ertake,  but  thou  art  fled ! 
I  find  the  rock  where  thou  didst  rest, 
The  moss  thy  skimming  foot  hath  prest ; 

All  Nature  with  thy  parting  thrills, 
Like  branches  after  birds  new-flown ; 

Thy  passage  hill  and  hollow  fills 
With  hints  of  virtue  not  their  own ; 
In  dimples  still  the  water  slips 
Where  thou  hast  dipt  thy  finger-tips ; 

Just,  just  beyond,  forever  burn 

Gleams  of  a  grace  without  return  ; 

Upon  thy  shade  I  plant  my  foot, 
And    through    my   frame    strange    raptures 

shoot ; 
All  of  thee  but  thyself  I  grasp  ; 

I  seem  to  fold  thy  luring  shape, 
And  vague  air  to  my  bosom  clasp, 

Thou  lithe,  perpetual  Escape ! 


UENVOI  33 

One  mask  and  then  another  drops, 
And  thou  art  secret  as  before : 

Sometimes  with  flooded  ear  I  list, 

And  hear  thee,  wondrous  organist, 
From  mighty  continental  stops 
A  thunder  of  new  music  pour ; 
Through  pipes  of  earth  and  air  and  stone 
Thy  inspiration  deep  is  blown ; 
Through  mountains,  forests,  open  downs, 
Lakes,  railroads,  prairies,  states,  and  towns, 
Thy  gathering  fugue  goes  rolling  on 
From  Maine  to  utmost  Oregon ; 
The  factory-wheels  in  cadence  hum, 
From  brawling  parties  concords  come  ; 
All  this  I  hear,  or  seem  to  hear, 
But  when,  enchanted,  I  draw  near 
To  mate  with  words  the  various  theme, 
Life  seems  a  whiff  of  kitchen  steam, 
History  an  organ-grinder's  thrum, 

For  thou  hast  slipt  from  it  and  me 
And  all  thine  organ-pipes  left  dumb, 

Most  mutable  Perversity ! 

Not  weary  yet,  I  still  must  seek, 
And  hope  for  luck  next  day,  next  week; 
I  go  to  see  the  great  man  ride, 
Shiplike,  the  swelling  human  tide 
That  floods  to  bear  him  into  port, 
Trophied  from  Senate-hall  and  Court ; 
Thy  magnetism,  I  feel  it  there, 
Thy  rhythmic  presence  fleet  and  rare, 
Making  the  Mob  a  moment  fine 
With  glimpses  of  their  own  Divine, 


34  L'ENVOI 

As  in  their  demigod  they  see 

Their  cramped  ideal  soaring  free  ; 

'T  was  thou  didst  .bear  the  fire  about, 
That,  like  the  springing  of  a  mine 

Sent  up  to  heaven  the  street-long  shout ; 

Full  well  I  know  that  thou  wast  here, 

It  was  thy  breath  that  brushed  my  ear ; 

But  vainly  in  the  stress  and  whirl 

I  dive  for  thee,  the  moment's  pearl. 

Through  every  shape  thou  well  canst  run, 

Proteus,  'twixt  rise  and  set  of  sun, 

"Well  pleased  with  logger-camps  in  Maine 

As  where  Milan's  pale  Duomo  lies 
A  stranded  glacier  on  the  plain, 
Its  peaks  and  pinnacles  of  ice 
Melted  in  many  a  quaint  device, 
And  sees,  above  the  city's  din, 
Afar  its  silent  Alpine  kin  : 
I  track  thee  over  carpets  deep 
To  wealth's  and  beauty's  inmost  keep  ; 
Across  the  sand  of  bar-room  floors 
Mid  the  stale  reek  of  boosing  boors  ; 
Where  drowse  the  hay-field's  fragrant  heats, 
Or  the  flail-heart  of  Autumn  beats ; 
I  dog  thee  through  the  market's  throngs 
To  where  the  sea  with  myriad  tongues 
Laps  the  green  edges  of  the  pier, 
And  the  tall  ships  that  eastward  steer, 
Curtsy  their  farewells  to  the  town, 
O'er  the  curved  distance  lessening  down  ; 
I  follow  allwhere  for  thy  sake. 
Touch  thy  robe's  hem,  but  ne'er  o'ertake, 


V ENVOI  35 

Find  where,  scarce  yet  unmoving,  lies, 
Warm  from  thy  limbs,  thy  last  disguise ; 
But  thou  another  shape  hast  donned, 
And  lurest  still  just,  just  beyond ! 

But  here  a  voice,  I  know  not  whence, 
Thrills  clearly  through  my  inward  sense, 
Saying :  "  See  where  she  sits  at  home 
While  thou  in  search  of  her  dost  roam ! 
All  summer  long  her  ancient  wheel 

Whirls  humming  by  the  open  door, 
Or,  when  the  hickory's  social  zeal 

Sets  the  wide  chimney  in  a  roar, 
Close-nestled  by  the  tinkling  hearth, 
It  modulates  the  household  mirth 
With  that  sweet  serious  undertone 
Of  duty,  music  all  her  own ; 
Still  as  of  old  she  sits  and  spins 
Our  hopes,  our  sorrows,  and  our  sins ; 
With  equal  care  she  twines  the  fates 
Of  cottages  and  mighty  states  ; 
She  spins  the  earth,  the  air,  the  sea, 
The  maiden's  unschooled  fancy  free, 
The  boy's  first  love,  the  man's  first  grief, 
The  budding  and  the  fall  o'  the  leaf ; 
The  piping  west-wind's  snowy  care 
For  her  their  cloudy  fleeces  spare, 
Or  from  the  thorns  of  evil  times 
She  can  glean  wool  to  twist  her  rhymes ; 
Morning  and  noon  and  eve  supply 
To  her  their  fairest  tints  for  dye, 
But  ever  through  her  twirling  thread 
There  spires  one  line  of  warmest  red, 


36  L' ENVOI 

Tinged  from  the  homestead's  genial  heart, 
The  stamp  and  warrant  of  her  art ; 
With  this  Time's  sickle  she  outwears, 
And  blunts  the  Sisters'  baffled  shears. 

"  Harass  her  not :  thy  heat  and  stir 
But  greater  coyness  breed  in  her ; 
Yet  thou  mayst  find,  ere  Age's  frost, 
Thy  long  apprenticeship  not  lost, 
Learning  at  last  that  Stygian  Fate 
Unbends  to  him  that  knows  to  wait. 
The  Muse  is  womanish,  nor  deigns 
Her  love  to  him  that  pules  and  plains ; 
With  proud,  averted  face  she  stands 
To  him  that  wooes  with  empty  hands. 
Make  thyself  free  of  Manhood's  guild ; 
Pull  down  thy  barns  and  greater  build ; 
The  wood,  the  mountain,  and  the  plain 
Wave  breast-deep  with  the  poet's  grain  ; 
Pluck  thou  the  sunset's  fruit  of  gold, 
Glean  from  the  heavens  and  ocean  old ; 
From  fireside  lone  and  trampling  street 
Let  thy  life  garner  daily  wheat ; 
The  epic  of  a  man  rehearse, 
Be  something  better  than  thy  verse ; 
Make  thyself  rich,  and  then  the  Muse 
Shall  court  thy  precious  interviews, 
Shall  take  thy  head  upon  her  knee, 
And  such  enchantment  lilt  to  thee, 
That  thou  shalt  hear  the  life-blood  flow 
From  farthest  stars  to  grass-blades  low, 
And  find  the  Listener's  science  still 
Transcends  the  Singer's  deepest  skill !  " 


THE  CATHEDRAL 


To 
MR.  JAMES  T.   FIELDS 

MY  DEAR  FIELDS: 

Dr.  Johnson's  sturdy  self-respect  led  him  to  invent  the  Book- 
seller as  a  substitute  for  the  Patron.  My  relations  with  you  have 
enabled  me  to  discover  how  pleasantly  the  Friend  may  replace 
the  Bookseller.  Let  me  record  my  sense  of  many  thoughtful 
services  by  associating1  your  name  with  a  poem  which  owes  its 
appearance  in  this  form  to  your  partiality. 
Cordially  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

CAMBRIDGE,  November  29,  1869. 


FAR  through  the  memory  shines  a  happy  day, 
Cloudless  of  care,  down-shod  to  every  sense, 
And  simply  perfect  from  its  own  resource, 
As  to  a  bee  the  new  campanula's 
Illuminate  seclusion  swung  in  air. 
Such  days  are  not  the  prey  of  setting  suns, 
Nor  ever  blurred  with  mist  of  afterthought ; 
Like  words  made  magical  by  poets  dead, 
Wherein  the  music  of  all  meaning  is 
The  sense  hath  garnered  or  the  soul  divined, 
They  mingle  with  our  life's  ethereal  part, 
Sweetening  and  gathering  sweetness  evermore, 
By  beauty's  franchise  disenthralled  of  time. 


38  THE   CATHEDRAL 

I  can  recall,  nay,  they  are  present  still, 
Parts  of  myself,  the  perfume  of  my  mind, 
Days  that  seem  farther  off  than  Homer's  now 
Ere  yet  the  child  had  loudened  to  the  boy, 
And  I,  recluse  from  playmates,  found  perforce 
Companionship  in  things  that  not  denied 
Nor  granted  wholly ;  as  is  Nature's  wont, 
Who,  safe  in  uncontaminate  reserve, 
Lets  us  mistake  our  longing  for  her  love, 
And  mocks  with  various  echo  of  ourselves. 

These  first  sweet  frauds  upon  our  consciousness, 

That  blend  the  sensual  with  its  imaged  world, 

These  virginal  cognitions,  gifts  of  morn, 

Ere  life  grow  noisy,  and  slower-footed  thought 

Can  overtake  the  rapture  of  the  sense, 

To  thrust  between  ourselves  and  what  we  feel, 

Have  something  in  them  secretly  divine. 

Vainly  the  eye,  once  schooled  to  serve  the  brain, 

With  pains  deliberate  studies  to  renew 

The  ideal  vision :  second-thoughts  are  prose ; 

For  beauty's  acme  hath  a  term  as  brief 

As  the  wave's  poise  before  it  break  in  pearl. 

Our  own  breath  dims  the  mirror  of  the  sense, 

Looking  too  long  and  closely  :  at  a  flash 

We  snatch  the  essential  grace  of  meaning  out, 

And  that  first  passion  beggars  all  behind, 

Heirs  of  a  tamer  transport  prepossessed. 

Who,  seeing  once,  has  truly  seen  again 

The  gray  vague  of  unsympathizing  sea 

That  dragged  his  Fancy  from  her  moorings  back 

To  shores  inhospitable  of  eldest  time, 


THE   CATHEDRAL  39 

Till  blank  foreboding  of  earth-gendered  powers, 
Pitiless  seignories  in  the  elements, 
Omnipotences  blind  that  darkling  smite, 
Misgave  him,  and  repaganized  the  world  ? 
Yet,  by  some  subtler  touch  of  sympathy, 
These  primal  apprehensions,  dimly  stirred, 
Perplex  the  eye  with  pictures  from  within. 
This  hath  made  poets  dream  of  lives  foregone 
In  worlds  fantastical,  more  fair  than  ours  ; 
So  Memory  cheats  us,  glimpsing  half -revealed. 
Even  as  I  write  she  tries  her  wonted  spell 
In  that  continuous  redbreast  boding  rain : 
The  bird  I  hear  sings  not  from  yonder  elm ; 
But  the  flown  ecstasy  my  childhood  heard 
Is  vocal  in  my  mind,  renewed  by  him, 
Haply  made  sweeter  by  the  accumulate  thrill 
That  threads  my  undivided  life  and  steals 
A  pathos  from  the  years  and  graves  between. 

I  know  not  how  it  is  with  other  men, 

Whom  I  but  guess,  deciphering  myself ; 

For  me,  once  felt  is  so  felt  nevermore. 

The  fleeting  relish  at  sensation's  brim 

Had  in  it  the  best  ferment  of  the  wine. 

One  spring  I  knew  as  never  any  since  : 

All  night  the  surges  of  the  warm  southwest 

Boomed  intermittent  through  the  wallowing  elms, 

And  brought  a  morning  from  the  Gulf  adrift, 

Omnipotent  with  sunshine,  whose  quick  charm 

Startled  with  crocuses  the  sullen  turf 

And  wiled  the  bluebird  to  his  whiff  of  song : 

One  summer  hour  abides,  what  time  I  perched, 


40  THE   CATHEDRAL 

Dappled  with  noonday,  under  simmering  leaves, 
And  pulled  the  pulpy  oxhearts,  while  aloof 
An  oriole  clattered  and  the  robins  shrilled, 
Denouncing  me  an  alien  and  a  thief : 
One  morn  of  autumn  lords  it  o'er  the  rest, 
When  in  the  lane  I  watched  the  ash-leaves  fall, 
Balancing  softly  earthward  without  wind, 
Or  twirling  with  directer  impulse  down 
On  those  fallen  yesterday,  now  barbed  with  frost, 
While  I  grew  pensive  with  the  pensive  year : 
And  once  I  learned  how  marvellous  winter  was, 
When  past  the  fence-rails,  downy-gray  with  rime, 
I  creaked  adventurous  o'er  the  spangled  crust 
That  made  familiar  fields  seem  far  and  strange 
As  those  stark  wastes  that  whiten  endlessly 
In  ghastly  solitude  about  the  pole, 
And  gleam  relentless  to  the  unsetting  sun  : 
Instant  the  candid  chambers  of  my  brain 
Were  painted  with  these  sovran  images ; 
And  later  visions  seem  but  copies  pale 
From  those  unfading  frescos  of  the  past, 
Which  I,  young  savage,  in  my  age  of  flint, 
Gazed  at,  and  dimly  felt  a  power  in  me 
Parted  from  Nature  by  the  joy  in  her 
That  doubtfully  revealed  me  to  myself. 
Thenceforward  I  must  stand  outside  the  gate ; 
And  paradise  was  paradise  the  more, 
Known  once  and  barred  against  satiety. 

What  we  call  Nature,  all  outside  ourselves, 
Is  but  our  own  conceit  of  what  we  see, 
Our  own  reaction  upon  what  we  feel ; 


THE   CATHEDRAL  41 

The  world  's  a  woman  to  our  shifting  mood, 

Feeling  with  us,  or  making  due  pretence  ; 

And  therefore  we  the  more  persuade  ourselves 

To  make  all  things  our  thought's  confederates, 

Conniving  with  us  in  whate'er  we  dream. 

So  when  our  Fancy  seeks  analogies, 

Though  she  have  hidden  what  she  after  finds, 

She  loves  to  cheat  herself  with  feigned  surprise. 

I  find  my  own  complexion  everywhere : 

No  rose,  I  doubt,  was  ever,  like  the  first, 

A  marvel  to  the  bush  it  dawned  upon, 

The  rapture  of  its  life  made  visible, 

The  mystery  of  its  yearning  realized, 

As  the  first  babe  to  the  first  woman  born ; 

No  falcon  ever  felt  delight  of  wings 

As  when,  an  eyas,  from  the  stolid  cliff 

Loosing  himself,  he  followed  his  high  heart 

To  swim  on  sunshine,  masterless  as  wind ; 

And  I  believe  the  brown  earth  takes  delight 

In  the  new  snowdrop  looking  back  at  her, 

To  think  that  by  some  vernal  alchemy 

It  could  transmute  her  darkness  into  pearl ; 

What  is  the  buxom  peony  after  that, 

With  its  coarse  constancy  of  hoyden  blush  ? 

What  the  full  summer  to  that  wonder  new? 

But,  if  in  nothing  else,  in  us  there  is 
A  sense  fastidious  hardly  reconciled 
To  the  poor  makeshifts  of  life's  scenery, 
Where  the  same  slide  must  double  all  its  parts, 
Shoved  in  for  Tarsus  and  hitched  back  for  Tyre. 
I  blame  not  in  the  soul  this  daintiness, 


42  THE   CATHEDRAL 

Kasher  of  surfeit  than  a  humming-bird, 

In  things  indifferent  by  sense  purveyed ; 

It  argues  her  an  immortality 

And  dateless  incomes  of  experience, 

This  unthrift  housekeeping  that  will  not  brook 

A  dish  warmed-over  at  the  feast  of  life, 

And  finds  Twice  stale,  served  with  whatever  sauce. 

Nor  matters  much  how  it  may  go  with  me 

Who  dwell  in  Grub  Street  and  am  proud  to  drudge 

Where  men,  my  betters,  wet  their  crust  with  tears : 

Use  can  make  sweet  the  peach's  shady  side, 

That  only  by  reflection  tastes  of  sun. 

But  she,  my  Princess,  who  will  sometimes  deign 

My  garret  to  illumine  till  the  walls, 

Narrow    and    dingy,    scrawled    with     hackneyed 

thought 

(Poor  Kichard  slowly  elbowing  Plato  out), 
Dilate  and  drape  themselves  with  tapestries 
Nausikaa  might  have  stooped  o'er,  while,  between, 
Mirrors,  effaced  in  their  own  clearness,  send 
Her  only  image  on  through  deepening  deeps 
With  endless  repercussion  of  delight,  — 
Bringer  of  life,  witching  each  sense  to  soul, 
That  sometimes  almost  gives  me  to  believe 
I  might  have  been  a  poet,  gives  at  least 
A  brain  desaxonized,  an  ear  that  makes 
Music  where  none  is,  and  a  keener  pang 
Of  exquisite  surmise  outleaping  thought,  — 
Her  will  I  pamper  in  her  luxury : 
No  crumpled  rose-leaf  of  too  careless  phoice 
Shall  bring  a  northern  nightmare  to  her  dreams, 


THE  CATHEDRAL  43 

Vexing  with  sense  of  exile ;  hers  shall  be 
The  in  vitiate  firstlings  of  experience, 
Vibrations  felt  but  once  and  felt  life  long : 
Oh,  more  than  half-way  turn  that  Grecian  front 
Upon  me,  while  with  self-rebuke  I  spell, 
On  the  plain  fillet  that  confines  thy  hair 
In  conscious  bounds  of  seeming  unconstraint, 
The  Naught  in  overplus,  thy  race's  badge ! 

One  feast  for  her  I  secretly  designed 

In  that  Old  World  so  strangely  beautiful 

To  us  the  disinherited  of  eld,  — 

A  day  at  Chartres,  with  no  soul  beside 

To  roil  with  pedant  prate  my  joy  serene 

And  make  the  minster  shy  of  confidence. 

I  went,  and,  with  the  Saxon's  pious  care, 

First  ordered  dinner  at  the  pea-green  inn, 

The  flies  and  I  its  only  customers. 

Eluding  these,  I  loitered  through  the  town, 

With  hope  to  take  my  minster  unawares 

In  its  grave  solitude  of  memory. 

A  pretty  burgh,  and  such  as  Fancy  loves 

For  bygone  grandeurs,  faintly  rumorous  now 

Upon  the  mind's  horizon,  as  of  storm 

Brooding  its  dreamy  thunders  far  aloof, 

That  mingle  with  our  mood,  but  not  disturb. 

Its  once  grim  bulwarks,  tamed  to  lovers'  walks, 

Look  down  unwatchful  on  the  sliding  Eure, 

Whose  listless  leisure  suits  the  quiet  place, 

Lisping  among  his  shallows  homelike  sounds 

At  Concord  and  by  Bankside  heard  before. 

Chance  led  me  to  a  public  pleasure-ground, 


44  THE   CATHEDRAL 

Where  I  grew  kindly  with  the  merry  groups, 

And  blessed  the  Frenchman  for  his  simple  art 

Of  being  domestic  in  the  light  of  day. 

His  language  has  no  word,  we  growl,  for  Home ; 

But  he  can  find  a  fireside  in  the  sun, 

Play  with  his  child,  make  love,  and  shriek  his  mind, 

By  throngs  of  strangers  undisprivacied. 

He  makes  his  life  a  public  gallery, 

Nor  feels  himself  till  what  he  feels  comes  back 

In  manifold  reflection  from  without; 

While  we,  each  pore  alert  with  consciousness, 

Hide  our  best  selves  as  we  had  stolen  them, 

And  each  bystander  a  detective  were, 

Keen-eyed  for  every  chink  of  undisguise. 

So,  musing  o'er  the  problem  which  was  best,  — 

A  life  wide-windowed,  shining  all  abroad, 

Or  curtains  drawn  to  shield  from  sight  profane 

The  rites  we  pay  to  the  mysterious  I,  — 

WTith  outward  senses  furloughed  and  head  bowed 

I  followed  some  fine  instinct  in  my  feet, 

Till,  to  unbend  me  from  the  loom  of  thought, 

Looking  up  suddenly,  I  found  mine  eyes 

Confronted  with  the  minster's  vast  repose. 

Silent  and  gray  as  forest-leaguered  cliff 

Left  inland  by  the  ocean's  slow  retreat, 

That  hears  afar  the  breeze-borne  rote  and  longs, 

Remembering  shocks  of  surf  that  clomb  and  fell, 

Spume-sliding  down  the  baffled  decuman, 

It  rose  before  me,  patiently  remote 

From  the  great  tides  of  life  it  breasted  once, 

Hearing  the  noise  of  men  as  in  a  dream. 


THE   CATHEDRAL  45 

I  stood  before  the  triple  northern  port, 

Where  dedicated  shapes  of  saints  and  kings, 

Stern  faces  bleared  with  immemorial  watch, 

Looked  down  benignly  grave  and  seemed  to  say, 

Ye  come  and  go  incessant ;  we  remain 

Safe  in  the  hallowed  quiets  of  the  past ; 

Be  reverent,  ye  who  flit  and  are  forgot, 

Of  faith  so  nobly  realized  as  this. 

I  seem  to  have  heard  it  said  by  learned  folk 

Who  drench  you  with  aesthetics  till  you  feel 

As  if  all  beauty  were  a  ghastly  bore, 

The  faucet  to  let  loose  a  wash  of  words, 

That  Gothic  is  not  Grecian,  therefore  worse ; 

But,  being  convinced  by  much  experiment 

How  little  inventiveness  there  is  in  man, 

Grave  copier  of  copies,  I  give  thanks 

For  a  new  relish,  careless  to  inquire 

My  pleasure's  pedigree,  if  so  it  please, 

Nobly,  I  mean,  nor  renegade  to  art. 

The  Grecian  gluts  me  with  its  perfectness, 

Unanswerable  as  Euclid,  self-contained, 

The  one  thing  finished  in  this  hasty  world, 

Forever  finished,  though  the  barbarous  pit, 

Fanatical  on  hearsay,  stamp  and  shout 

As  if  a  miracle  could  be  encored. 

But  ah  !  this  other,  this  that  never  ends, 

Still  climbing,  luring  fancy  still  to  climb, 

As  full  of  morals  half-divined  as  life, 

Graceful,  grotesque,  with  ever  new  surprise 

Of  hazardous  caprices  sure  to  please, 

Heavy  as  nightmare,  airy-light  as  fern, 

Imagination's  very  self  in  stone ! 


46  THE   CATHEDRAL 

With  one  long  sigh  of  infinite  release 
From  pedantries  past,  present,  or  to  come, 
I  looked,  and  owned  myself  a  happy  Goth. 
Your  blood  is  mine,  ye  architects  of  dream, 
Builders  of  aspiration  incomplete, 
So  more  consummate,  souls  self-confident, 
Who  felt  your  own  thought  worthy  of  record 
In  monumental  pomp  !     No  Grecian  drop 
Rebukes  these  veins  that  leap  with  kindred  thrill, 
After  long  exile,  to  the  mother-tongue. 

Ovid  in  Pontus,  puling  for  his  Rome 

Of  men  invirile  and  disnatured  dames 

That  poison  sucked  from  the  Attic  bloom  decayed, 

Shrank  with  a  shudder  from  the  blue-eyed  race 

Whose  force  rough-handed  should  renew  the  world, 

And  from  the  dregs  of  Romulus  express 

Such  wine  as  Dante  poured,  or  he  who  blew 

Roland's  vain  blast,  or  sang  the  Campeador 

In  verse  that  clanks  like  armor  in  the  charge, 

Homeric  juice,  though  brimmed  in  Odin's  horn. 

And  they  could  build,  if  not  the  columned  fane 

That  from  the  height  gleamed  seaward  many-hued, 

Something  more  friendly  with  their  ruder  skies : 

The  gray  spire,  molten  now  in  driving  mist, 

Now  lulled  with  the  incommunicable  blue  ; 

The  carvings  touched  to  meaning  new  with  snow, 

Or  commented  with  fleeting  grace  of  shade ; 

The  statues,  motley  as  man's  memory, 

Partial  as  that,  so  mixed  of  true  and  false, 

History  and  legend  meeting  with  a  kiss 

Across  this  bound-mark  where  their  realms  confine ; 


THE   CATHEDRAL  47 

The  painted  windows,  freaking  gloom  with  glow, 
Dusking  the  sunshine  which  they  seem  to  cheer, 
Meet  symbol  of  the  senses  and  the  soul, 
And   the  whole  pile,  grim   with   the  Northman's 

thought 

Of  life  and  death,  and  doom,  life's  equal  fee,  — 
These  were  before  me :  and  I  gazed  abashed, 
Child  of  an  age  that  lectures,  not  creates, 
Plastering  our  swallow-nests  on  the  awful  Past, 
And  twittering  round  the  work  of  larger  men, 
As  we  had  builded  what  we  but  deface. 
Far  up  the  great  bells  wallowed  in  delight, 
Tossing  their  clangors  o'er  the  heedless  town, 
To  call  the  worshippers  who  never  came, 
Or  women  mostly,  in  loath  twos  and  threes. 
I  entered,  reverent  of  whatever  shrine 
Guards  piety  and  solace  for  my  kind 
Or  gives  the  soul  a  moment's  truce  of  God, 
And  shared  decorous  in  the  ancient  rite 
My  sterner  fathers  held  idolatrous. 
The  service  over,  I  was  tranced  in  thought : 
Solemn  the  deepening  vaults,  and  most  to  me, 
Fresh  from  the  fragile  realm  of  deal  and  paint, 
Or  brick  mock-pious  with  a  marble  front ; 
Solemn  the  lift  of  high-embowered  roof, 
The  clustered  stems   that    spread  in  boughs  dis- 

leaved, 

Through  which  the  organ  blew  a  dream  of  storm, 
Though  not  more  potent  to  sublime  with  awe 
And  shut  the  heart  up  in  tranquillity, 
Than  aisles  to  me  familiar  that  o'erarch 
The  conscious  silences  of  brooding  woods, 


48  THE    CATHEDRAL 

Centurial  shadows,  cloisters  of  the  elk : 

Yet  here  was  sense  of  undefined  regret, 

Irreparable  loss,  uncertain  what : 

Was  all  this  grandeur  but  anachronism, 

A  shell  divorced  of  its  informing  life, 

Where  the  priest  housed  him  like  a  hermit-crab, 

An  alien  to  that  faith  of  elder  days 

That  gathered  round  it  this  fair  shape  of  stone  ? 

Is  old  Religion  but  a  spectre  now, 

Haunting  the  solitude  of  darkened  minds, 

Mocked  out  of  memory  by  the  sceptic  day  ? 

Is  there  no  corner  safe  from  peeping  Doubt, 

Since  Gutenberg  made  thought  cosmopolite 

And  stretched  electric  threads  from  mind  to  mind? 

Nay,  did  Faith  build  this  wonder  ?  or  did  Fear, 

That  makes  a  fetish  and  misnames  it  God 

(Blockish  or  metaphysic,  matters  not), 

Contrive  this  coop  to  shut  its  tyrant  in, 

Appeased  with  playthings,  that  he  might  not  harm? 

I  turned  and  saw  a  beldame  on  her  knees ; 

With  eyes  astray,  she  told  mechanic  beads 

Before  some  shrine  of  saintly  womanhood, 

Bribed  intercessor  with  the  far-off  Judge : 

Such  my  first  thought,  by  kindlier  soon  rebuked, 

Pleading  for  whatsoever  touches  life 

With  upward  impulse  :  be  He  nowhere  else, 

God  is  in  all  that  liberates  and  lifts, 

In  all  that  humbles,  sweetens,  and  consoles : 

Blessed  the  natures  shored  on  every  side 

With  landmarks  of  hereditary  thought ! 

Thrice  happy  they  that  wander  not  life  long 


THE   CATHEDRAL  49 

Beyond  near  succor  of  the  household  faith, 
The  guarded  fold  that  shelters,  not  confines ! 
Their  steps  find  patience  in  familiar  paths, 
Printed  with  hope  by  loved  feet  gone  before 
Of  parent,  child,  or  lover,  glorified 
By  simple  magic  of  dividing  Time. 
My  lids  were  moistened  as  the  woman  knelt, 
And  —  was  it  will,  or  some  vibration  faint 
Of  sacred  Nature,  deeper  than  the  will  ?  — 
My  heart  occultly  felt  itself  in  hers, 
Through  mutual  intercession  gently  leagued. 

Or  was  it  not  mere  sympathy  of  brain  ? 
A  sweetness  intellectually  conceived 
In  simpler  creeds  to  me  impossible  ? 
A  iusrsrle  of  that  pity  for  ourselves 

J      OO  1         «/ 

In  others,  which  puts  on  such  pretty  masks 
And  snares  self-love  with  bait  of  charity  ? 
Something  of  all  it  might  be,  or  of  none : 
Yet  for  a  moment  I  was  snatched  away 
And  had  the  evidence  of  things  not  seen ; 
For  one  rapt  moment ;  then  it  all  came  back, 
This  age  that  blots  out  life  with  question-marks, 
This  nineteenth  century  with  its  knife  and  glass 
That  make  thought  physical,  and  thrust  far  off 
The  Heaven,  so  neighborly  with  man  of  old, 
To  voids  sparse-sown  with  alienated  stars. 

'T  is  irrecoverable,  that  ancient  faith, 
Homely  and  wholesome,  suited  to  the  time, 
With  rod  or  candy  for  child-minded  men : 
No  theologic  tube,  with  lens  on  lens 


50  THE   CATHEDRAL 

Of  syllogism  transparent,  brings  it  near,  — 
At  best  resolving  some  new  nebula, 
Or  blurring  some  fixed-star  of  hope  to  mist. 
Science  was  Faith  once ;  Faith  were  Science  now, 
Would  she  but  lay  her  bow  and  arrows  by 
And  arm  her  with  the  weapons  of  the  time. 
Nothing  that  keeps  thought  out  is  safe  from  thought. 
For  there  's  no  virgin-fort  but  self-respect, 
And  Truth  defensive  hath  lost  hold  on  God. 
Shall  we  treat  Him  as  if  He  were  a  child 
That  knew  not  His  own  purpose  ?  nor  dare  trust 
The  Rock  of  Ages  to  their  chemic  tests, 
Lest  some  day  the  all-sustaining  base  divine 
Should  fail  from  under  us,  dissolved  in  gas  ? 
The  armed  eye  that  with  a  glance  discerns 
In  a  dry  blood-speck  between  ox  and  man, 
Stares  helpless  at  this  miracle  called  life, 
This  shaping  potency  behind  the  egg, 
This  circulation  swift  of  deity, 
Where  suns  and  systems  inconspicuous  float 
As  the  poor  blood-disks  in  our  mortal  veins. 
Each  age  must  worship  its  own  thought  of  God, 
More  or  less  earthy,  clarifying  still 
With  subsidence  continuous  of  the  dregs ; 
Nor  saint  nor  sage  could  fix  immutably 
The  fluent  image  of  the  unstable  Best, 
Still  changing  in  their  very  hands  that  wrought : 
To-day's  eternal  truth  To-morrow  proved 
Frail  as  frost-landscapes  on  a  window-pane. 
Meanwhile  Thou  smiledst,  inaccessible, 
At   Thought's   own   substance    made   a   cage   for 
Thought, 


THE   CATHEDRAL  51 

And  Truth  locked  fast  with  her  own  master-key ; 
Nor  didst  Thou  reck  what  image  man  might  make 
Of  his  own  shadow  on  the  flowing  world  ; 
The  climbing  instinct  was  enough  for  Thee. 
Or  wast  Thou,  then,  an  ebbing  tide  that  left 
Strewn  with  dead  miracle  those  eldest  shores, 
For  men  to  dry,  and  dryly  lecture  on, 
Thyself  thenceforth  incapable  of  flood  ? 
Idle  who  hopes  with  prophets  to  be  snatched 
By  virtue  in  their  mantles  left  below ; 
Shall  the  soul  live  on  other  men's  report, 
Herself  a  pleasing  fable  of  herself  ? 
Man  cannot  be  God's  outlaw  if  he  would, 
Nor  so  abscond  him  in  the  caves  of  sense 
But  Nature  still  shall  search  some  crevice  out 
With  messages  of  splendor  from  that  Source 
Which,  dive  he,  soar  he,  baffles  still  and  lures. 
This  life  were  brutish  did  we  not  sometimes 
Have  intimation  clear  of  wider  scope, 
Hints  of  occasion  infinite,  to  keep 
The  soul  alert  with  noble  discontent 
And  onward  yearnings  of  unstilled  desire ; 
Fruitless,  except  we  now  and  then  divined 
A  mystery  of  Purpose,  gleaming  through 
The  secular  confusions  of  the  world, 
Whose  will  we  darkly  accomplish,  doing  ours. 
No  man  can  think  nor  in  himself  perceive, 
Sometimes  at  waking,  in  the  street  sometimes, 
Or  on  the  hillside,  always  unforewarned, 
A  grace  of  being,  finer  than  himself, 
That  beckons  and  is  gone,  —  a  larger  life 
Upon  his  own  impinging,  with  swift  glimpse 


52  THE   CATHEDRAL 

Of  spacious  circles  luminous  with  mind, 
To  which  the  ethereal  substance  of  his  own 
Seems  but  gross  cloud  to  make  that  visible, 
Touched  to  a  sudden  glory  round  the  edge. 
Who  that  hath  known  these  visitations  fleet 
Would  strive  to  make  them  trite  and  ritual  ? 
I,  that  still  pray  at  morning  and  at  eve, 
Loving  those  roots  that  feed  us  from  the  past, 
And  prizing  more  than  Plato  things  I  learned 
At  that  best  academe,  a  mother's  knee, 
Thrice  in  my  life  perhaps  have  truly  prayed, 
Thrice,  stirred  below  my  conscious  self,  have  felt 
That  perfect  disenthralment  which  is  God  ; 
Nor  know  I  which  to  hold  worst  enemy, 
Him  who  on  speculation's  windy  waste 
Would  turn  me  loose,  stript  of  the  raiment  warm 
By  Faith  contrived  against  our  nakedness, 
Or  him  who,  cruel-kind,  would  fain  obscure, 
With  painted  saints  and  paraphrase  of  God, 
The  soul's  east-window  of  divine  surprise. 
Where  others  worship  I  but  look  and  long ; 
For,  though  not  recreant  to  my  fathers'  faith, 
Its  forms  to  me  are  weariness,  and  most 
That  drony  vacuum  of  compulsory  prayer, 
Still  pumping  phrases  for  the  Ineffable, 
Though  all  the  valves  of  memory  gasp  and  wheeze. 
Words  that  have  drawn  transcendent  meanings  up 
From  the  best  passion  of  all  bygone  time, 
Steeped  through  with  tears  of   triumph  and   re- 
morse, 

Sweet  with  all  sainthood,  cleansed  in  martyr-fires, 
Can  they,  so  consecrate  and  ,so  inspired, 


THE  CATHEDRAL  53 

By  repetition  wane  to  vexing  wind  ? 

Alas  !  we  cannot  draw  habitual  breath 

In  the  thin  air  of  life's  supremer  heights, 

We  cannot  make  each  meal  a  sacrament, 

Nor  with  our  tailors  be  disbodied  souls,  — 

We  men,  too  conscious  of  earth's  comedy, 

Who  see  two  sides,  with  our  posed  selves  debate, 

And  only  for  great  stakes  can  be  sublime*! 

Let  us  be  thankful  when,  as  I  do  here, 

We  can  read  Bethel  on  a  pile  of  stones, 

And,  seeing  where  God  has  been,  trust  in  Him. 

Brave  Peter  Fischer  there  in  Nuremberg, 
Moulding  Saint  Sebald's  miracles  in  bronze, 
Put  saint  and  stander-by  in  that  quaint  garb 
Familiar  to  him  in  his  daily  walk, 
Not  doubting  God  could  grant  a  miracle 
Then  and  in  Nuremberg,  if  so  He  would ; 
But  never  artist  for  three  hundred  years 
Hath  dared  the  contradiction  ludicrous 
Of  supernatural  in  modern  clothes. 
Perhaps  the  deeper  faith  that  is  to  come 
Will  see  God  rather  in  the  strenuous  doubt, 
Than  in  the  creed  held  as  an  infant's  hand 
Holds  purposeless  whatso  is  placed  therein. 

Say  it  is  drift,  not  progress,  none  the  less, 
With  the  old  sextant  of  the  fathers'  creed, 
We  shape  our  courses  by  new-risen  stars, 
And,  still  lip-loyal  to  what  once  was  truth, 
Smuggle  new  meanings  under  ancient  names, 
Unconscious  perverts  of  the  Jesuit,  Time. 


54  THE   CATHEDRAL 

Change  is  the  mask  that  all  Continuance  wears 
To  keep  us  youngsters  harmlessly  amused ; 
Meanwhile  some  ailing  or  more  watchful  child, 
Sitting  apart,  sees  the  old  eyes  gleam  out, 
Stern,  and  yet  soft  with  humorous  pity  too. 
Whilere,  men  burnt  men  for  a  doubtful  point, 
As  if  the  mind  were  quenchable  with  fire, 
And  Faith  danced  round  them  with  her  war-paint 

on, 

Devoutly  savage  as  an  Iroquois  ; 
Now  Calvin  and  Serve tus  at  one  board 
Snuff  in  grave  sympathy  a  milder  roast, 
And  o'er  their  claret  settle  Comte  unread. 
Fagot  and  stake  were  desperately  sincere  : 
Our  cooler  martyrdoms  are  done  in  types ; 
And  flames  that  shine  in  controversial  eyes 
Burn  out  no  brains  but  his  who  kindles  them. 
This  is  no  age  to  get  cathedrals  built : 
Did  God,  then,  wait  for  one  in  Bethlehem  ? 
Worst  is  not  yet :  lo,  where  his  coming  looms, 
Of  Earth's  anarchic  children  latest  born, 
Democracy,  a  Titan  who  hath  learned 
To  laugh  at  Jove's  old-fashioned  thunderbolts,  — 
Could  he  not  also  forge  them,  if  he  would  ? 
He,  better  skilled,  with  solvents  merciless, 
Loosened  in  air  and  borne  on  every  wind, 
Saps  unperceived  :  the  calm  Olympian  height 
Of  ancient  order  feels  its  bases  yield, 
And  pale  gods  glance  for  help  to  gods  as  pale. 
What  will  be  left  of  good  or  worshipful, 
Of  spiritual  secrets,  mysteries, 
Of  fair  religion's  guarded  heritage, 


THE   CATHEDRAL  55 

Heirlooms  of  soul,  passed  downward  unprofaned 

From  eldest  Ind?     This  Western  giant  coarse, 

Scorning  refinements  which  he  lacks  himself, 

Loves  not  nor  heeds  the  ancestral  hierarchies, 

Each  rank  dependent  on  the  next  above 

In  orderly  gradation  .fixed  as  fate. 

King  by  mere  manhood,  nor  allowing  aught 

Of  holier  unction  than  the  sweat  of  toil ; 

In  his  own  strength  sufficient ;  called  to  solve, 

On  the  rough  edges  of  society, 

Problems  long  sacred  to  the  choicer  few, 

And  improvise  what  elsewhere  men  receive 

As  gifts  of  deity ;  tough  foundling  reared 

Where  every  man 's  his  own  Melchisedek, 

How  make  him  reverent  of  a  King  of  kings? 

Or  Judge  self-made,  executor  of  laws 

By  him  not  first  discussed  and  voted  on  ? 

For  him  no  tree  of  knowledge  is  forbid, 

Or  sweeter  if  forbid.     How  save  the  ark, 

Or  holy  of  holies,  unprofaned  a  day 

From  his  unscrupulous  curiosity 

That  handles  everything  as  if  to  buy, 

Tossing  aside  what  fabrics  delicate 

Suit  not  the  rough-and-tumble  of  his  ways  ? 

What  hope  for  those  fine-nerved  humanities 

That  made  earth  gracious  once  with  gentler  arts, 

Now  the  rude  hands  have  caught  the  trick  of  thought 

And  claim  an  equal  suffrage  with  the  brain  ?  • 

The  born  disciple  of  an  elder  time, 

(To  me  sufficient,  friendlier  than  the  new,) 

Who  in  my  blood  feel  motions  of  the  Past, 


56  THE   CATHEDRAL 

I  thank  benignant  nature  most  for  this,  — 

A  force  of  sympathy,  or  call  it  lack 

Of  character  firm-planted,  loosing  me 

From  the  pent  chamber  of  habitual  self 

To  dwell  enlarged  in  alien  modes  of  thought, 

Haply  distasteful,  wholesorner  for  that, 

And  through  imagination  to  possess, 

As  they  were  mine,  the  lives  of  other  men. 

This  growth  original  of  virgin  soil, 

By  fascination  felt  in  opposites, 

Pleases  and  shocks,  entices  and  perturbs. 

In  this  brown-fisted  rough,  this  shirt-sleeved  Cid, 

This  backwoods  Charlemagne  of  empires  new, 

Whose  blundering  heel  instinctively  finds  out 

The  goutier  foot  of  speechless  dignities, 

Who,  meeting  CaBsar's  self,  would  slap  his  back, 

Call  him  "  Old  Horse,"  and  challenge  to  a  drink, 

My  lungs  draw  braver  air,  my  breast  dilates 

With  ampler  manhood,  and  I  front  both  worlds, 

Of  sense  and  spirit,  as  my  natural  fiefs, 

To  shape  and  then  reshape  them  as  I  will. 

It  was  the  first  man's  charter ;  why  not  mine  ? 

How  forfeit  ?  when  deposed  in  other  hands  ? 

Thou  shudder'st,  Ovid  ?     Dost  in  him  forebode 
A  new  avatar  of  the  large-limbed  Goth^ 
To  break,  or  seem  to  break,  tradition's  clue, 
And  chase  to  dreamland  back  thy  gods  dethroned  ? 
I  think  man's  soul  dwells  nearer  to  the  east, 
Nearer  to  morning's  fountains  than  the  sun ; 
Herself  the  source  whence  all  tradition  sprang, 
Herself  at  once  both  labyrinth  and  clue. 


THE   CATHEDRAL  57 

The  miracle  fades  out  of  history, 

But  faith  and  wonder  and  the  primal  earth 

Are  born  into  the  world  with  every  child. 

Shall  this  self-maker  with  the  prying  eyes, 

This  creature  disenchanted  of  respect 

By  the  New  World's  new  fiend,  Publicity, 

Whose  testing  thumb  leaves  everywhere  its  smutch, 

Not  one  day  feel  within  himself  the  need 

Of  loyalty  to  better  than  himself, 

That  shall  ennoble  him  with  the  upward  look  ? 

Shall  he  not  catch  the  Voice  that  wanders  earth, 

With  spiritual  summons,  dreamed  or  heard, 

As  sometimes,  just  ere  sleep  seals  up  the  sense, 

We  hear  our  mother  call  from  deeps  of  Time, 

And,  waking,  find  it  vision,  —  none  the  less 

The  benediction  bides,  old  skies  return, 

And  that  unreal  thing,  preeminent, 

Makes  air  and  dream  of  all  we  see  and  feel  ? 

Shall  he  divine  no  strength  unmade  of  votes, 

Inward,  impregnable,  found  soon  as  sought, 

Not  cognizable  of  sense,  o'er  sense  supreme  ? 

Else  were  he  desolate  as  none  before. 

His  holy  places  may  not  be  of  stone, 

Nor  made  with  hands,  yet  fairer  far  than  aught 

By  artist  feigned  or  pious  ardor  reared, 

Fit  altars  for  who  guards  inviolate 

God's  chosen  seat,  the  sacred  form  of  man. 

Doubtless  his  church  will  be  no  hospital 

For  superannuate  forms  and  mumping  shams, 

No  parlor  where  men  issue  policies 

Of  life-assurance  on  the  Eternal  Mind, 

Nor  his  religion  but  an  ambulance 


58  THE   CATHEDRAL 

To  fetch  life's  wounded  and  malingerers  in, 

Scorned  by  the  strong ;  yet  he,  unconscious  heir 

To  the  influence  sweet  of  Athens  and  of  Rome, 

And  old  Judsea's  gift  of  secret  fire, 

Spite  of  himself  shall  surely  learn  to  know 

And  worship  some  ideal  of  himself, 

Some  divine  thing,  large-hearted,  brotherly, 

Not  nice  in  trifles,  a  soft  creditor, 

Pleased  with  his  world,  and  hating  only  cant. 

And,  if  his  Church  be  doubtful,  it  is  sure 

That,  in  a  world,  made  for  whatever  else, 

Not  made  for  mere  enjoyment,  in  a  world 

Of  toil  but  half -requited,  or,  at  best, 

Paid  in  some  futile  currency  of  breath, 

A  world  of  incompleteness,  sorrow  swift 

And  consolation  laggard,  whatsoe'er 

The  form  of  building  or  the  creed  professed, 

The  Cross,  bold  type  of  shame  to  homage  turned, 

Of  an  unfinished  life  that  sways  the  world, 

Shall  tower  as  sovereign  emblem  over  all. 

The  kobold  Thought  moves  with  us  when  we  shift 
Our  dwelling  to  escape  him  ;  perched  aloft 
On  the  first  load  of  household-stuff  he  went  ; 
For,  where  the  mind  goes,  goes  old  furniture. 
I,  who  to  Chartres  came  to  feed  my  eye 
And  give  to  Fancy  one  clear  holiday, 
Scarce  saw  the  minster  for  the  thoughts  it  stirred 
Buzzing  o'er  past  and  future  with  vain  quest. 
Here  once  there  stood  a  homely  wooden  church, 
Which  slow  devotion  nobly  changed  for  this 
That  echoes  vaguely  to  my  modern  steps. 


THE   CATHEDRAL  59 

By  suffrage  universal  it  was  built, 

As  practised  then,  for  all  the  country  came 

From  far  as  Rouen,  to  give  votes  for  God, 

Each  vote  a  block  of  stone  securely  laid 

Obedient  to  the  master's  deep-mused  plan. 

Will  what  our  ballots  rear,  responsible 

To  no  grave  forethought,  stand  so  long  as  this  ? 

Delight  like  this  the  eye  of  after  days 

Brightening  with  pride   that  here,  at  least,  were 

men 

Who  meant  and  did  the  noblest  thing  they  knew  ? 
Can  our  religion  cope  with  deeds  like  this  ? 
We,  too,  build  Gothic  contract-shams,  because 
Our  deacons  have  discovered  that  it  pays, 
And  pews  sell  better  under  vaulted  roofs 
Of  plaster  painted  like  an  Indian  squaw. 
Shall  not  that  Western  Goth,  of  whom  we  spoke, 
So  fiercely  practical,  so  keen  of  eye, 
Find  out,  some  day,  that  nothing  pays  but  God, 
Served  whether  on  the  smoke-shut  battle-field, 
In  work  obscure  done  honestly,  or  vote 
For  truth  unpopular,  or  faith  maintained 
To  ruinous  convictions,  or  good  deeds 
Wrought  for  good's  sake,  mindless  of  heaven  or 

hell? 

Shall  he  not  learn  that  all  prosperity, 
Whose  bases  stretch  not  deeper  than  the  sense, 
Is  but  a  trick  of  this  world's  atmosphere, 
A  desert-born  mirage  of  spire  and  dome, 
Or  find  too  late,  the  Past's  long  lesson  missed, 
That  dust  the  prophets  shake  from  off  their  feet 
Grows  heavy  to  drag  down  both  tower  and  wall? 


60  THE    CATHEDRAL 

I  know  not ;  but,  sustained  by  sure  belief 

That  man  still  rises  level  with  the  height 

Of  noblest  opportunities,  or  makes 

Such,  if  the  time  supply  not,  I  can  wait. 

I  gaze  round  on  the  windows,  pride  of  France, 

Each  the  bright  gift  of  some  mechanic  guild 

Who  loved  their  city  and  thought  gold  well  spent 

To  make  her  beautiful  with  piety ; 

I  pause,  transfigured  by  some  stripe  of  bloom, 

And  my  mind  throngs  with  shining  auguries, 

Circle  on  circle,  bright  as  seraphim, 

With  golden  trumpets,  silent,  that  await 

The  signal  to  blow  news  of  good  to  men. 

Then  the  revulsion  came  that  always  comes 

After  these  dizzy  elation  s  of  the  mind  : 

And  with  a  passionate  pang  of  doubt  I  cried, 

"  O  mountain-born,  sweet  with  snow-filtered  air 

From  uncontaminate  wells  of  ether  drawn 

And  never-broken  secrecies  of  sky, 

Freedom,  with  anguish  won,  misprized  till  lost, 

They  keep  thee  not  who  from  thy  sacred  eyes 

Catch  the  consuming  lust  of  sensual  good 

And  the  brute's  license  of  unfettered  will. 

Far  from  the  popular  shout  and  venal  breath 

Of  Cleon  blowing  the  mob's  baser  mind 

To  bubbles  of  wind-piloted  conceit, 

Thou  shrinkest,  gathering  up  thy  skirts,  to  hide 

In  fortresses  of  solitary  thought 

And  private  virtue  strong  in  self-restraint. 

Must  we  too  forfeit  thee  misunderstood, 

Content  with  names,  nor  inly  wise  to  know 


THE   CATHEDRAL  61 

That  best  things  perish  of  their  own  excess, 

And  quality  o'er-driven  becomes  defect  ? 

Nay,  is  it  thou  indeed  that  we  have  glimpsed, 

Or  rather  such  illusion  as  of  old 

Through  Athens  glided  menadlike  and  Rome, 

A  shape  of  vapor,  mother  of  vain  dreams 

And  mutinous  traditions,  specious  plea 

Of  the  glaived  tyrant  and  long-memoried  priest  ?  " 

I  walked  forth  saddened ;  for  all  thought  is  sad, 

And  leaves  a  bitterish  savor  in  the  brain, 

Tonic,  it  may  be,  not  delectable, 

And  turned,  reluctant,  for  a  parting  look 

At  those  old  weather-pitted  images 

Of  bygone  struggle,  now  so  sternly  calm. 

About  their  shoulders  sparrows  had  built  nests, 

And  fluttered,  chirping,  from  gray  perch  to  perch, 

Now  on  a  mitre  poising,  now  a  crown, 

Irreverently  happy.     While  I  thought 

How  confident  they  were,  what  careless  hearts 

Flew  on  those  lightsome  wings  and  shared  the  sun, 

A  larger  shadow  crossed  ;  and  looking  up, 

I  saw  where,  nesting  in  the  hoary  towers, 

The  sparrow-hawk  slid  forth  on  noiseless  air, 

With  sidelong  head  that  watched  the  joy  below, 

Grim  Norman  baron  o'er  this  clan  of  Kelts. 

Enduring  Nature,  force  conservative, 

Indifferent  to  our  noisy  whims  !     Men  prate 

Of  all  heads  to  an  equal  grade  cashiered 

On  level  with  the  dullest,  and  expect 

(Sick  of  no  worse  distemper  than  themselves) 

A  wondrous  cure-all  in  equality  ; 


62  THE   CATHEDRAL 

They  reason  that  To-morrow  must  be  wise 
Because  To-day  was  not,  nor  Yesterday, 
As  if  good  days  were  shapen  of  themselves, 
Not  of  the  very  lifeblood  of  men's  souls  ; 
Meanwhile,  long-suffering,  imperturbable, 
Thou  quietly  complet'st  thy  syllogism, 
And  from  the  premise  sparrow  here  below 
Draw'st  sure  conclusion  of  the  hawk  above, 
Pleased  with  the  soft-billed  songster,  pleased  n,- 

less 
With  the  fierce  beak  of  natures  aquiline. 

Thou  beautiful  Old  Time,  now  hid  away 

In  the  Past's  valley  of  Avilion, 

Haply,  like  Arthur,  till  thy  wound  be  healed, 

Then  to  reclaim  the  sword  and  crown  again  ! 

Thrice  beautiful  to  us ;  perchance  less  fair 

To  who  possessed  thee,  as  a  mountain  seems 

To  dwellers  round  its  bases  but  a  heap 

Of  barren  obstacle  that  lairs  the  storm 

And  the  avalanche's  silent  bolt  holds  back 

Leashed  with  a  hair,  —  meanwhile   some   far-off 

clown, 

Hereditary  delver  of  the  plain, 
Sees  it  an  unmoved  vision  of  repose, 
Nest  of  the  morning,  and  conjectures  there 
The  dance  of  streams  to  idle  shepherds'  pipes, 
And  fairer  habitations  softly  hung 
On  breezy  slopes,  or  hid  in  valleys  cool, 
For  happier  men.     No  mortal  ever  dreams 
That  the  scant  isthmus  he  encamps  upon 
Between  two  oceans,  one,  the  Stormy,  passed, 


THE   CATHEDRAL  63 

And  one,  the  Peaceful,  yet  to  venture  on, 
Has  been  that  future  whereto  prophets  yearned 
For  the  fulfilment  of  Earth's  cheated  hope, 
Shall  be  that  past  which  nerveless  poets  moan 
As  the  lost  opportunity  of  song. 

0  Power,  more  near  my  life  than  life  itself 
(Or  what  seems  life  to  us  in  sense  immured), 
Even  as  the  roots,  shut  in  the  darksome  earth, 
Share  in  the  tree-top's  joyance,  and  conceive 
Of  sunshine  and  wide  air  and  winged  things 
By  sympathy  of  nature,  so  do  I 

Have  evidence  of  Thee  so  far  above, 

Yet  in  and  of  me !     Rather  Thou  the  root 

Invisibly  sustaining,  hid  in  light, 

Not  darkness,  or  in  darkness  made  by  us. 

If  sometimes  I  must  hear  good  men  debate 

Of  other  witness  of  Thyself  than  Thou, 

As  if  there  needed  any  help  of  ours 

To  nurse  Thy  flickering  life,  that  else  must  cease, 

Blown  out,  as  't  were  a  candle,  by  men's  breath, 

My  soul  shall  not  be  taken  in  their  snare, 

To  change  her  inward  surety  for  their  doubt 

Muffled  from  sight  in  formal  robes  of  proof  : 

While  she  can  only  feel  herself  through  Thee, 

1  fear  not  Thy  withdrawal ;  more  I  fear, 
Seeing,    to    know   Thee     not,     hoodwinked    with 

dreams 

Of  signs  and  wonders,  while,  unnoticed,  Thou, 
Walking  Thy  garden  still,  commun'st  with  men, 
Missed  in  the  commonplace  of  miracle. 


THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS 

"  Coscienza  fusca 

O  della  propria  o  dell'  altrui  vergogna 
Pur  sentira  la  tua  parola  brusca." 

If  I  let  fall  a  word  of  bitter  mirth 

When  public  shames  more  shameful  pardon  won, 

Some  have  misjudged  me,  and  my  service  done, 

If  small,  yet  faithful,  deemed  of  little  worth : 

Through  veins  that  drew  their  life  from  Western  earth 

Two  hundred  years  and  more  my  blood  hath  run 

In  no  polluted  course  from  sire  to  son ; 

And  thus  was  I  predestined  ere  my  birth 

To  love  the  soil  wherewith  my  fibres  own 

Instinctive  sympathies ;  yet  love  it  so 

As  honor  would,  nor  lightly  to  dethrone 

Judgment,  the  stamp  of  manhood,  nor  forego 

The  son's  right  to  a  mother  dearer  grown 

With  growing  knowledge  and  more  chaste  than  snow. 


To 
E.  L.  GODKIN, 

IN    CORDIAL    ACKNOWLEDGMENT    OF    HIS    EMINENT    SERVICE 

IN  HEIGHTENING   AND   PURIFYING  THE   TONE 

OF  OUR   POLITICAL   THOUGHT, 


ARE   DEDICATED. 


*#*  Readers,  it  is  hoped,  will  remember  that,  by  his  Ode  at  the 
Harvard  Commemoration,  the  author  had  precluded  himself  from 
many  of  the  natural  outlets  of  thought  and  feeling  common  to 
such  occasions  as  are  celebrated  in  these  pooms. 


ODE  READ  AT  CONCORD  65 


ODE 

READ  AT  THE   ONE   HUNDREDTH   ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE 
FIGHT  AT   CONCORD   BRIDGE 

19iH  APRIL,  1875 

I. 

WHO  cometh  over  the  hills, 
Her  garments  with  morning  sweet, 
The  dance  of  a  thousand  rills 
Making  music  before  her  feet  ? 
Her  presence  freshens  the  air ; 
Sunshine  steals  light  from  her  face : 
The  leaden  footstep  of  Care 
Leaps  to  the  tune  of  her  pace, 
Fairness  of  all  that  is  fair, 
Grace  at  the  heart  of  all  grace, 
Sweetener  of  hut  and  of  hall, 
Bringer  of  life  out  of  naught, 
Freedom,  oh,  fairest  of  all 
The  daughters  of  Time  and  Thought ! 

II. 

She  cometh,  cometh  to-day : 
Hark !  hear  ye  not  her  tread, 
Sending  a  thrill  through  your  clay, 
Under  the  sod  there,  ye  dead, 
Her  nurslings  and  champions  ? 
Do  ye  not  hear,  as  she  comes, 
The  bay  of  the  deep-mouthed  guns, 
The  gathering  rote  of  the  drums  ? 


66  THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS 

The  bells  that  called  ye  to  prayer, 
How  wildly  they  clamor  on  her, 
Crying,  "  She  cometh !  prepare 
Her  to  praise  and  her  to  honor, 
"That  a  hundred  years  ago 
Scattered  here  in  blood  and  tears 
Potent  seeds  wherefrom  should  grow 
Gladness  for  a  hundred  years  I  " 

III. 

Tell  me,  young  men,  have  ye  seen, 

Creature  of  diviner  mien 

For  true  hearts  to  long  and  cry  for, 

Manly  hearts  to  live  and  die  for  ? 

What  hath  she  that  others  want? 

Brows  that  all  endearments  haunt5 

Eyes  that  make  it  sweet  to  dare, 

Smiles  that  cheer  untimely  death, 

Looks  that  fortify  despair, 

Tones  more  brave  than  trumpet's  breath ; 

Tell  me,  maidens,  have  ye  known 

Household  charm  more  sweetly  rare, 

Grace  of  woman  ampler  blown, 

Modesty  more  debonair, 

Younger  heart  with  wit  full  grown  ? 

Oh  for  an  hour  of  my  prime, 

The  pulse  of  my  hotter  years, 

That  I  might  praise  her  in  rhyme 

Would  tingle  your  eyelids  to  tears, 

Our  sweetness,  our  strength,  and  our  star, 

Our  hope,  our  joy,  and  our  trust, 

Who  lifted  us  out  of  the  dust, 

And  made  us  whatever  we  are  I 


ODE  READ  AT  CONCORD  67 

IV. 

Whiter  than  moonshine  upon  snow 

Her  raiment  is,  but  round  the  hem 

Crimson  stained ;  and,  as  to  and  fro 

Her  sandals  flash,  we  see  on  them, 

And  on  her  instep  veined  with  blue, 

Flecks  of  crimson,  on  those  fair  feet, 

High-arched,  Diana-like,  and  fleet, 

Fit  for  no  grosser  stain  than  dew : 

Oh,  call  them  rather  chrisms  than  stains. 

Sacred  and  from  heroic  veins  ! 

For,  in  the  glory-guarded  pass, 

Her  haughty  and  far-shining  head 

She  bowed  to  shrive  Leonidas 

With  his  imperishable  dead ; 

Her,  too,  Morgarten  saw, 

Where  the  Swiss  lion  fleshed  his  icy  paw ; 

She  followed  Cromwell's  quenchless  star 

Where  the  grim  Puritan  tread 

Shook  Marston,  Naseby,  and  Dunbar : 

Yea,  on  her  feet  are  dearer  dyes 

Yet  fresh,  nor  looked  on  with  untearful  eyes. 

v. 

Our  fathers  found  her  in  the  woods 

Where  Nature  meditates  and  broods, 

The  seeds  of  unexampled  things 

Which  Time  to  consummation  brings 

Through  life  and  death  and  man's  unstable  moods ; 

They  met  her  here,  not  recognized, 

A  sylvan  huntress  clothed  in  furs, 


68  THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS 

To  whose  chaste  wants  her  bow  sufficed, 

Nor  dreamed  what  destinies  were  hers  : 

She  taught  them  bee-like  to  create 

Their  simpler  forms  of  Church  and  State ; 

She  taught  them  to  endue 

The  past  with  other  functions  than  it  knew, 

And  turn  in  channels  strange  the  uncertain  stream 

of  Fate ; 

Better  than  all,  she  fenced  them  in  their  need 
With  iron-handed  Duty's  sternest  creed, 
'Gainst  Self's  lean  wolf  that  ravens  word  and  deed. 

VI. 

Why  cometh  she  hither  to-day 

To  this  low  village  of  the  plain 

Far  from  the  Present's  loud  highway, 

From  Trade's  cool  heart  and  seething  brain  ? 

Why  cometh  she  ?     She  was  not  far  away. 

Since  the  soul  touched  it,  not  in  vain, 

With  pathos  of  immortal  gain, 

'T  is  here  her  fondest  memories  stay. 

She  loves  yon  pine-bemurmured  ridge 

Where  now  our  broad-browed  poet  sleeps, 

Dear  to  both  Englands  ;  near  him  he 

Who  wore  the  ring  of  Canace  ; 

But  most  her  heart  to  rapture  leaps 

Where  stood  that  era-parting  bridge, 

O'er  which,  with  footfall  still  as  dew, 

The  Old  Time  passed  into  the  New ; 

Where,  as  your  stealthy  river  creeps, 

He  whispers  to  his  listening  weeds 

Tales  of  sublimest  homespun  deeds. 


ODE  READ  AT  CONCORD  69 

Here  English  law  and  English  thought 

'Gainst  the  self-will  of  England  fought ; 

And  here  were  men  (coequal  with  their  fate), 

Who  did  great  things,  unconscious  they  were  great. 

They  dreamed  not  what  a  die  was  cast 

With  that  first  answering  shot ;  what  then  ? 

There  was  their  duty ;  they  were  men 

Schooled  the  soul's  inward  gospel  to  obey, 

Though  leading  to  the  lion's  den. 

They  felt  the  habit-hallowed  world  give  way 

Beneath  their  lives,  and  on  went  they, 

Unhappy  who  was  last. 

When  Buttrick  gave  the  word, 

That  awful  idol  of  the  unchallenged  Past, 

Strong  in  their  love,  and  in  their  lineage  strong, 

Fell  crashing  :  if  they  heard  it  not, 

Yet  the  earth  heard, 

Nor  ever  hath  forgot, 

As  on  from  startled  throne  to  throne, 

Where  Superstition  sate  or  conscious  Wrong, 

A  shudder  ran  of  some  dread  birth  unknown. 

Thrice  venerable  spot ! 

Eiver  more  fateful  than  the  Rubicon ! 

O'er  those  red  planks,  to  snatch  her  diadem, 

Man's  Hope,  star-girdled,  sprang  with  them, 

And  over  ways  untried  the  feet  of  Doom  strode  on. 

VII. 

Think  you  these  felt  no  charms 

In  their  gray  homesteads  and  embowered  farms  ? 

In  household  faces  waiting  at  the  door 

Their  evening  step  should  lighten  up  no  more  ? 


70  THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS 

In  fields  their  boyish  feet  had  known  ? 

In  trees  their  fathers'  hands  had  set, 

And  which  with  them  had  grown, 

Widening  each  year  their  leafy  coronet  ? 

Felt  they  no  pang  of  passionate  regret 

For  those  un solid  goods  that  seem  so   much   our 

own? 

These  things  are  dear  to  every  man  that  lives, 
And  life  prized  more  for  what  it  lends  than  gives. 
Yea,  many  a  tie,  through  iteration  sweet, 
Strove  to  detain  their  fatal  feet ; 
And  yet  the  enduring  half  they  chose, 
Whose  choice  decides  a  man  life's  slave  or  king, 
The  invisible  things  of  God  before  the  seen  and 

known : 

Therefore  their  memory  inspiration  blows 
With  echoes  gathering  on  from  zone  to  zone ; 
For  manhood  is  the  one  immortal  thing 
Beneath  Time's  changeful  sky, 
And,  where  it  lightened  once,  from  age  to  age, 
Men  come  to  learn,  in  grateful  pilgrimage, 
That  length  of  days  is  knowing  when  to  die. 

VIII, 

What  marvellous  change  of  things  and  men ! 
She,  a  world-wandering  orphan  then, 
So  mighty  now  !     Those  are  her  streams 
That  whirl  the  myriad,  myriad  wheels 
Of  all  that  does,  and  all  that  dreams, 
Of  all  that  thinks,  and  all  that  feels, 
Through  spaces  stretched  from  sea  to  sea ; 
By  idle  tongues  and  busy  brains, 


ODE  READ  AT  CONCORD  71 

By  who  doth  right,  and  who  refrains,  , 

Hers  are  our  losses  and  our  gains; 
Our  maker  and  our  victim  she. 

IX. 

Maiden  half  mortal,  half  divine, 

We  triumphed  in  thy  coming ;  to  the  brinks 

Our  hearts   were   filled  with  pride's  tumultuous 

wine ; 

Better  to-day  who  rather  feels  than  thinks. 
Yet  will  some  graver  thoughts  intrude, 
And  cares  of  sterner  mood ; 
They  won  thee  :  who  shall  keep  thee  ?     From  the 

deeps 

Where  discrowned  empires  o'er  their  ruins  brood, 
And  many  a  thwarted  hope  wrings  its  weak  hands 

and  weeps, 

I  hear  the  voice  as  of  a  mighty  wind 
From  all  heaven's  caverns  rushing  unconfined, 
"  I,  Freedom,  dwell  with  Knowledge  :  I  abide 
With  men  whom  dust  of  faction  cannot  blind 
To  the  slow  tracings  of  the  Eternal  Mind  ; 
With  men  by  culture  trained  and  fortified, 
Who  bitter  duty  to  sweet  lusts  prefer, 
Fearless  to  counsel  and  obey. 
Conscience  my  sceptre  is,  and  law  my  sword, 
Not  to  be  drawn  in  passion  or  in  play, 
But  terrible  to  punish  and  deter ; 
Implacable  as  God's  word, 
Like  it,  a  shepherd's  crook  to  them  that  blindly 

err. 
Your  firm-pulsed  sires,  my  martyrs  and  my  saints, 


72  THREE   MEMORIAL   POEMS 

Offshoots  of  that  one  stock  whose  patient  sense 

Hath  known  to  mingle  flux  with  permanence, 

Rated  my  chaste  denials  and  restraints 

Above  the  moment's  dear-paid  paradise : 

Beware  lest,  shifting  with  Time's  gradual  creep, 

The  light  that  guided  shine  into  your  eyes. 

The  envious  Powers  of  ill  nor  wink  nor  sleep  : 

Be  therefore  timely  wise, 

Nor  laugh  when  this  one  steals,  and  that  one  lies, 

As  if  your  luck  could  cheat  those  sleepless  spies, 

Till  the  deaf  Fury  comes  your  house  to  sweep !  " 

I  hear  the  voice,  and  unaffrighted  bow ; 

Ye  shall  not  be  prophetic  now, 

Heralds  of  ill,  that  darkening  fly 

Between  my  vision  and  the  rainbowed  sky, 

Or  on  the  left  your  hoarse  forebodings  croak 

From  many  a  blasted  bough 

On  Yggdrasil's  storm-sinewed  oak, 

That  once  was  green,  Hope  of  the  West,  as  thou : 

Yet  pardon  if  I  tremble  while  I  boast ; 

For  I  have  loved  as  those  who  pardon  most. 

x. 

Away,  ungrateful  doubt,  away  ! 
At  least  she  is  our  own  to-day. 
Break  into  rapture,  my  song, 
Yerses,  leap  forth  in  the  sun, 
Bearing  the  joyance  along 
Like  a  train  of  fire  as  ye  run  ! 
Pause  not  for  choosing  of  words, 
Let  them  but  blossom  and  sing- 
Blithe  as  the  orchards  and  birds 


ODE  READ  AT  CONCORD  73 

With  the  new  coining  of  spring  ! 

Dance  in  your  jollity,  bells  ; 

Shout,  cannon ;  cease  not,  ye  drums ; 

Answer,  ye  hillside  and  dells  ; 

Bow,  all  ye  people  !     She  comes, 

Radiant,  calm-fronted,  as  when 

She  hallowed  that  April  day. 

Stay  with  us  I     Yes,  thou  shalt  stay, 

Softener  and  strengthener  of  men, 

Freedom,  not  won  by  the  vain, 

Not  to  be  courted  in  play, 

Not  to  be  kept  without  pain. 

Stay  with  us !     Yes,  thou  wilt  stay,     f 

Handmaid  and  mistress  of  all, 

Kindler  of  deed  and  of  thought, 

Thou  that  to  hut  and  to  hall 

Equal  deliverance  brought ! 

Souls  of  her  martyrs,  draw  near, 

Touch  our  dull  lips  with  your  fire, 

That  we  may  praise  without  fear 

Her  our  delight,  our  desire, 

Our  faith's  inextinguishable  star, 

Our  hope,  our  remembrance,  our  trust, 

Our  present,  our  past,  our  to  be, 

Who  will  mingle  her  life  with  our  dust 

And  makes  us  deserve  to  be  free  ! 


74  THREE  MEMORIAL   POEMS 

UNDER  THE   OLD  ELM 

POEM   READ  AT   CAMBRIDGE    ON   THE    HUNDREDTH  ANNI- 
VERSARY OF  WASHINGTON'S  TAKING  COMMAND  OF  THE 

AMERICAN  ARMY,  3D  JULY,  1775. 

I. 
• 

1. 

WOKDS  pass  as  wind,  but  where  great  deeds  were 

done 

A  power  abides  transfused  from  sire  to  son : 
The  boy  feels  deeper  meanings  thrill  his  ear, 
That  tingling  through  his  pulse  life-long  shall  run, 
With  sure  impulsion  to  keep  honor  clear, 
When,  pointing  down,  his  father  whispers,  "  Here, 
Here,  where  we  stand,  stood  he,  the  purely  great, 
Whose  soul  no  siren  passion  could  un sphere, 
Then  nameless,  now  a  power  and  mixed  with  fate." 
Historic  town,  thou  boldest  sacred  dust, 
Once  known  to  men  as  pious,  learned,  just, 
And  one  memorial  pile  that  dares  to  last ; 
But  Memory  greets  with  reverential  kiss 
No  spot  in  all  thy  circuit  sweet  as  this, 
Touched  by  that  modest  glory  as  it  past, 
O'er  which  yon  elm  hath  piously  displayed 
These  hundred  years  its  monumental  shade. 


Of  our  swift  passage  through  this  scenery 
Of  life  and  death,  more  durable  than  we, 
What  landmark  so  congenial  as  a  tree 


UNDER    THE   OLD  ELM  75 

Eepeating  its  green  legend  every  spring, 

And,  with  a  yearly  ring, 

Eecording  the  fair  seasons  as  they  flee, 

Type  of  our  brief  but  still-renewed  mortality  ? 

We  fall  as  leaves  :  the  immortal  trunk  remains, 

Builded  with  costly  juice  of  hearts  and  brains 

Gone  to  the  mould  now,  whither  all  that  be 

Vanish  returnless,  yet  are  procreant  still 

In  human  lives  to  come  of  good  or  ill, 

And  feed  unseen  the  roots  of  Destiny. 


II. 

1. 

MEN'S  monuments,  grown  old,  forget  their  names 

They  should  eternize,  but  the  place 

Where  shining  souls  have  passed  imbibes  a  grace 

Beyond  mere  earth ;  some  sweetness  of  their  fames 

Leaves  in  the  soil  its  unextinguished  trace, 

Pungent,  pathetic,  sad  with  nobler  aims, 

That  penetrates  our  lives  and  heightens  them  or 

shames. 

This  insubstantial  world  and  fleet 
Seems  solid  for  a  moment  when  we  stand 
On  dust  ennobled  by  heroic  feet 
Once  mighty  to  sustain  a  tottering  land, 
And  mighty  still  such  burthen  to  upbear, 
Nor   doomed   to   tread   the   path   of    things   that 

merely  were : 

Our  sense,  refined  with  virtue  of  the  spot, 
Across  the  mists  of  Lethe's  sleepy  stream 


76  THREE  MEMORIAL   POEMS 

Recalls  him,  the  sole  chief  without  a  blot, 

No  more  a  pallid  image  and  a  dream, 

But  as  he  dwelt  with  men  decorously  supreme. 

2. 

Our  grosser  minds  need  this  terrestrial  hint 

To  raise  long-buried  days  from  tombs  of  print : 

"  Here  stood  he,"  softly  we  repeat, 

And  lo,  the  statue  shrined  and  still 

In  that  gray  minster-front  we  call  the  Past, 

Feels  in  its  frozen  veins  our  pulses  thrill, 

Breathes  living  air  and  mocks  at  Death's  deceit. 

It  warms,  it  stirs,  comes  down  to  us  at  last, 

Its  features  human  with  familiar  light, 

A  man,  beyond  the  historian's  art  to  kill, 

Or  sculptor's  to  efface  with  patient  chisel-blight. 

3. 

Sure  the  dumb  earth  hath  memory,  nor  for  naught 

Was  Fancy  given,  on  whose  enchanted  loom 

Present  and  Past  commingle,  fruit  and  bloom 

Of  one  fair  bough,  inseparably  wrought 

Into  the  seamless  tapestry  of  thought. 

So  charmed,  with  undeluded  eye  we  see 

In  history's  fragmentary  tale 

Bright  clues  of  continuity, 

Learn  that  high  natures  over  Time  prevail, 

And  feel  ourselves  a  link  in  that  entail 

That  binds  all  ages  past  with  all  that  are  to  be. 


UNDER   THE   OLD  ELM  77 

III. 

1. 

BENEATH  our  consecrated  elm 

A  century  ago  he  stood, 

Famed  vaguely  for  that  old  fight  in  the  wood 

Whose  red  surge  sought,  but  could  not  overwhelm 

The   life    foredoomed    to   wield   our    rough-hewn 

helm :  — 

From  colleges,  where  now  the  gown 
To  arms  had  yielded,  from  the  town, 
Our  rude  self-summoned  levies  flocked  to  see 
The  new-come  chiefs  and  wonder  which  was  he. 
No  need  to  question  long ;  close-lipped  and  tall, 
Long  trained  in  murder-brooding  forests  lone 
To  bridle  others'  clamors  and  his  own, 
Firmly  erect,  he  towered  above  them  all, 
The  incarnate  discipline  that  was  to  free 
With  iron  curb  that  armed  democracy. 

2. 

A  motley  rout  was  that  which  came  to  stare, 

In  raiment  tanned  by  years  of  sun  and  storm, 

Of  every  shape  that  was  not  uniform, 

Dotted  with  regimentals  here  and  there  ; 

An  army  all  of  captains,  used  to  pray 

And  stiff  in  fight,  but  serious  drill's  despair, 

Skilled  to  debate  their  orders,  not  obey ; 

Deacons  were  there,  selectmen,  men  of  note 

In  half  tamed  hamlets  ambushed  round  with  woods, 

Ready  to  settle  Freewill  by  a  vote, 


78  THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS 

But  largely  liberal  to  its  private  moods ; 
Prompt  to  assert  by  manners,  voice,  or  pen, 
Or  ruder  arms,  tlieir  rights  as  Englishmen, 
Nor  much  fastidious  as  to  how  and  when  : 
Yet  seasoned  stuff  and  fittest  to  create 
A  thought-staid  army  or  a  lasting  state : 
Haughty  they  said  he  was,  at  first ;  severe  ; 
But  owned,  as  all  men  own,  the  steady  hand 
Upon  the  bridle,  patient  to  command, 
Prized,  as  all  prize,  the  justice  pure  from  fear, 
And  learned  to  honor  first,  then  love  him,  then  re- 
vere. 

Such  power  there  is  in  clear-eyed  self-restraint 
And  purpose  clean  as  light  from  every  selfish  taint. 

3. 

Musing  beneath  the  legendary  tree, 

The  years  between  furl  off :  I  seem  to  see 

The  sun-flecks,  shaken  the  stirred  foliage  through, 

Dapple  with  gold  his  sober  buff  and  blue 

And  weave  prophetic  aureoles  round  the  head 

That  shines  our  beacon  now  nor  darkens  with  the 

dead. 

O  man  of  silent  mood, 
A  stranger  among  strangers  then, 
How  art  thou  since  renowned  the  Great,  the  Good, 
Familiar  as  the  day  in  all  the  homes  of  men ! 
The  winged  years,  that  winnow  praise  and  blame, 
Blow  many  names  out :  they  but  fan  to  flame 
The  self -renewing  splendors  of  thy  fame. 


UNDER    THE   OLD  ELM  79 

IV. 


How  many  subtlest  influences  unite, 
With  spiritual  touch  of  joy  or  pain, 
Invisible  as  air  and  soft  as  light, 
To  body  forth  that  image  of  the  brain 
We  call  our  Country,  visionary  shape, 
Loved  more  than  woman,  fuller  of  fire  than  wine, 
Whose  charm  can  none  define, 
Nor  any,  though  he  flee  it,  can  escape  ! 
All  party-colored  threads  the  weaver  Time 
Sets  in  his  web,  now  trivial,  now  sublime, 
All  memories,  all  forebodings,  hopes  and  fears, 
Mountain  and  river,  forest,  prairie,  sea, 
A  hill,  a  rock,  a  homestead,  field,  or  tree, 
The  casual  gleanings  of  unreckoned  years, 
Take  goddess-shape  at  last  and  there  is  She, 
Old  at  our  birth,  new  as  the  springing  hours, 
Shrine  of  our  weakness,  fortress  of  our  powers, 
Consoler,  kindler,  peerless  'mid  her  peers, 
A  force  that  'neath  our  conscious  being  stirs, 
A  life  to  give  ours  permanence,  when  we 
Are  borne  to  mingle  our  poor  earth  with  hers, 
And  all  this  glowing  world  goes  with  us  on  our 
biers. 

2. 

Nations  are  long  results,  by  ruder  ways 
Gathering  the  might  that  warrants  length  of  days  ; 
They  may  be  pieced  of  half-reluctant  shares 


80  THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS 

Welded  by  hammer-strokes  of  broad-brained  kings, 

Or  from  a  doughty  people  grow,  the  heirs 

Of  wise  traditions  widening  cautious  rings  ; 

At  best  they  are  computable  things, 

A  strength  behind  us  making  us  feel  bold 

In  right,  or,  as  may  chance,  in  wrong ; 

Whose  force  by  figures  may  be  summed  and  told, 

So  many  soldiers,  ships,  and  dollars  strong, 

And  we  but  drops  that  bear  compulsory  part 

In  the  dumb  throb  of  a  mechanic  heart ; 

But  Country  is  a  shape  of  each  man's  mind 

Sacred  from  definition,  unconfined 

By   the   cramped    walls    where    daily   drudgeries 

grind ; 

An  inward  vision,  yet  an  outward  birth 
Of  sweet  familiar  heaven  and  earth ; 
A  brooding  Presence  that  stirs  motions  blind 
Of  wings  within  our  embryo  being's  shell 
That  wait  but  her  completer  spell 
To  make  us  eagle-natured,  fit  to  dare 
Life's  nobler  spaces  and  untarnished  air. 

3. 

You,  who  hold  dear  this  self-conceived  ideal, 
Whose  faith  and  works  alone  can  make  it  real, 
Bring  all  your  fairest  gifts  to  deck  her  shrine 
Who  lifts  our  lives  away  from  Thine  and  Mine 
And  feeds  the  lamp  of  manhood  more  divine 
With  fragrant  oils  of  quenchless  constancy. 
When  all  have  done  their  utmost,  surely  he 
Hath  given  the  best  who  gives  a  character 
Erect  and  constant,  which  nor  any  shock 


UNDER    THE   OLD  ELM  81 

Of  loosened  elements,  nor  the  forceful  sea 

Of  flowing  or  of  ebbing  fates,  can  stir 

From  its  deep  bases  in  the  living  rock 

Of  ancient  manhood's  sweet  security : 

And  this  he  gave,  serenely  far  from  pride 

As  baseness,  boon  with  prosperous  stars  allied, 

Part  of  what  nobler  seed  shall  in  our  loins  abide. 


No  bond  of  men  as  common  pride  so  strong, 
In  names  time-filtered  for  the  lips  of  song, 
Still  operant,  with  the  primal  Forces  bound 
Whose  currents,  on  their  spiritual  round, 
Transfuse  our  mortal  will  nor  are  gainsaid  : 
These   are   their    arsenals,  these   the   exhaustless 

mines 

That  give  a  constant  heart  in  great  designs  ; 
These  are  the  stuff  whereof  such  dreams  are  made 
As  make  heroic  men :  thus  surely  he 
Still  holds  in  place  the  massy  blocks  he  laid 
'Neath  our  new  frame,  enforcing  soberly 
The  self-control  that  makes  and  keeps  a  people 

free. 

V. 

1. 

OH,  for  a  drop  of  that.  Cornelian  ink 
Which  gave  Agricola  dateless  length  of  days, 
To  celebrate  him  fitly,  neither  swerve 
To  phrase  unkempt,  nor  pass  discretion's  brink, 
With  him  so  statue-like  in  sad  reserve, 


82  THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS 

So  diffident  to  claim,  so  forward  to  deserve ! 
Nor  need  I  shun  due  influence  of  his  fame 
"Who,  mortal  among  mortals,  seemed  as  now 
The  equestrian  shape  with  uuimpassioned  brow, 
That  paces  silent  on  through  vistas  of  acclaim. 

2. 

What  figure  more  immovably  august 

Than  that  grave  strength  so  patient  and  so  pure, 

Calm  in  good  fortune,  when  it  wavered,  sure, 

That  mind  serene,  impenetrably  just, 

Modelled  on  classic  lines  so  simple  they  endure  ? 

That  soul  so  softly  radiant  and  so  white 

The  track  it  left  seems  less  of  fire  than  light, 

Cold  but  to  such  as  love  distemperature  ? 

And  if  pure  light,  as  some  deem,  be  the  force 

That  drives  rejoicing  planets  on  their  course, 

Why  for  his  power  benign  seek  an  impurer  source  ? 

His  was  the  true  enthusiasm  that  burns  long, 

Domestically  bright, 

Fed  from  itself  and  shy  of  human  sight, 

The  hidden  force  that  makes  a  lifetime  strong, 

And  not  the  short-lived  fuel  of  a  song. 

Passionless,  say  you  ?     What  is  passion  for 

But  to  sublime  our  natures  and  control 

To  front  heroic  toils  with  late  return, 

Or  none,  or  such  as  shames  the  conqueror  ? 

That  fire  was  fed  with  substance  of  the  soul 

And  not  with  holiday  stubble,  that  could  burn, 

Unpraised  of  men  who  after  bonfires  run, 

Through  seven  slow  years  of  unadvancing  war, 

Equal  when  fields  were  lost  or  fields  were  won, 


UNDER    THE   OLD   ELM  83 

With,  breath  of  popular  applause  or  blame, 

Nor  fanned  nor  damped,  unquenchably  the  same, 

Too  inward  to  be  reached  by  flaws  of  idle  fame. 

3. 

Soldier  and  statesman,  rarest  unison  ; 
High-poised  example  of  great  duties  done 
Simply  as  breathing,  a  world's  honors  worn 
As  life's  indifferent  gifts  to  all  men  born ; 
Dumb  for  himself,  unless  it  were  to  God, 
But  for  his  barefoot  soldiers  eloquent, 
Tramping  the  snow  to  coral  where  they  trod, 
Held  by  his  awe  in  hollow-eyed  content ; 
Modest,  yet  firm  as  Nature's  self  ;  unblamed 
Save  by  the  men  his  nobler  temper  shamed ; 
Never  seduced  through  show  of  present  good 
By  other  than  unsetting  lights  to  steer 
New-trimmed  in  Heaven,  nor  than  his  steadfast 

mood 

More  steadfast,  far  from  rashness  as  from  fear ; 
Rigid,  but  with  himself  first,  grasping  still 
In  swerveless  poise  the  wave-beat  helm  of  will ; 
Not  honored  then  or  now  because  he  wooed 
The  popular  voice,  but  that  he  still  withstood  ; 
Broad-minded,  higher-souled,  there  is  but  one 
Who   was   all   this   and   ours,   and   all   men's,  — 
WASHINGTON. 

4. 

Minds  strong  by  fits,  irregularly  great, 
That  flash  and  darken  like  revolving  lights, 
Catch  more  the  vulgar  eye  unschooled  to  wait 


84  THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS 

On  the  long  curve  of  patient  days  and  nights 

Rounding  a  whole  life  to  the  circle  fair 

Of  orbed  fulfilment ;  and  this  balanced  soul, 

So  simple  in  its  grandeur,  coldly  bare 

Of  draperies  theatric,  standing  there 

In  perfect  symmetry  of  self-control, 

Seems  not  so  great  at  first,  but  greater  grows 

Still  as  we  look,  and  by  experience  learn 

How  grand  this  quiet  is,  how  nobly  stern 

The  discipline  that  wrought  through  lifelong  throes 

That  energetic  passion  of  repose. 

5. 

A  nature  too  decorous  and  severe, 

Too  self-respectful  in  its  griefs  and  joys, 

For  ardent  girls  and  boys 

Who  find  no  genius  in  a  mind  so  clear 

That  its  grave  depths  seem  obvious  and  near, 

Nor  a  soul  great  that  made  so  little  noise. 

They  feel  no  force  in  that  calm-cadenced  phrase, 

The  habitual  full-dress  of  his  well-bred  mind, 

That  seems  to  pace  the  minuet's  courtly  maze 

And  tell  of  ampler  leisures,  roomier  length  of  days. 

His  firm-based  brain,  to  self  so  little  kind 

That  no  tumultuary  blood  could  blind, 

Formed  to  control  men,  not  amaze, 

Looms  not  like  those  that  borrow  height  of  haze : 

It  was  a  world  of  statelier  movement  then 

Than  this  we  fret  in,  he  a  denizen 

Of  that  ideal  Rome  that  made  a  man  for  men. 


UNDER    THE   OLD  ELM  85 


VI. 

1. 

THE  longer  on  this  earth  we  live 

And  weigh  the  various  qualities  of  men, 

Seeing  how  most  are  fugitive, 

Or  fitful  gifts,  at  best,  of  now  and  then, 

Wind-wavered  corpse-lights,  daughters  of  the  fen, 

The  more  we  feel  the  high  stern-featured  beauty 

Of  plain  devotedness  to  duty, 

Steadfast  and  still,  nor  paid  with  mortal  praise, 

But  finding  amplest  recompense 

For  life's  ungarlanded  expense 

In  work  done  squarely  and  unwasted  days. 

For  this  we  honor  him,  that  he  could  know 

How  sweet  the  service  and  how  free 

Of  her,  God's  eldest  daughter  here  below, 

And  choose  in  meanest  raiment  which  was  she. 

2. 

Placid  completeness,  life  without  a  fall 
From  faith  or  highest  aims,  truth's  breachless  wall, 
Surely  if  any  fame  can  bear  the  touch, 
His  will  say  "  Here  !  "  at  the  last  trumpet's  call, 
The   unexpressive   man   whose    life   expressed   so 
much. 

VII. 

1. 

NEVER  to  see  a  nation  born 
Hath  been  given  to  mortal  man, 


86  THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS 

Unless  to  those  who,  on  that  summer  morn, 

Gazed  silent  when  the  great  Virginian 

Unsheathed  the  sword  whose  fatal  flash 

Shot  union  through  the  incoherent  clash 

Of  our  loose  atoms,  crystallizing  them 

Around  a  single  will's  unpliant  stem, 

And  making  purpose  of  emotion  rash. 

Out  of  that  scabbard  sprang,  as  from  its  womb, 

Nebulous  at  first  but  hardening  to  a  star, 

Through  mutual  share  of  sunburst  and  of  gloom, 

The  common  faith  that  made  us  what  we  are. 

2. 

That  lifted  blade  transformed  our  jangling  clans, 

Till  then  provincial,  to  Americans, 

And  made  a  unity  of  wildering  plans  ; 

Here  was  the  doom  fixed :  here  is  marked  the  date 

When  this  New  World  awoke  to  man's  estate, 

Burnt  its  last  ship  and  ceased  to  look  behind : 

Nor  thoughtless  was  the  choice  ;  no  love  or  hate 

Could  from  its  poise  move  that  deliberate  mind, 

Weighing  between  too  early  and  too  late 

Those  pitfalls  of  the  man  refused  by  Fate  : 

His  was  the  impartial  vision  of  the  great 

Who  see  not  as  they  wish,  but  as  they  find. 

He  saw  the  dangers  of  defeat,  nor  less 

The  incomputable  perils  of  success  ; 

The  sacred  past  thrown  by,  an  empty  rind  ; 

The  future,  cloud-land,  snare  of  prophets  blind ; 

The  waste  of  war,  the  ignominy  of  peace  ; 

On  either  hand  a  sullen  rear  of  woes, 

Whose  garnered  lightnings  none  could  guess, 


UNDER    THE   OLD  ELM  87 

Piling  its  thunder-heads  and  muttering  "  Cease  !  " 
Yet  drew  not  back  his  hand,  but  gravely  chose 
The  seeming-desperate  task  whence  our  new  nation 

rose. 

3. 

A  noble  choice  and  of  immortal  seed ! 

Nor  deem  that  acts  heroic  wait  on  chance 

Or  easy  were  as  in  a  boy's  romance ; 

The  man's  whole  life  preludes  the  single  deed 

That  shall  decide  if  his  inheritance 

Be  with  the  sifted  few  of  matchless  breed, 

Our  race's  sap  and  sustenance, 

Or  with  the  unmotived  herd  that  only  sleep  and 

feed. 

Choice  seems  a  thing  indifferent ;  thus  or  so, 
What  matters  it  ?     The  Fates  with  mocking  face 
Look  on  inexorable,  nor  seem  to  know 
Where  the  lot  lurks  that  gives  life's  foremost  place. 
Yet  Duty's  leaden  casket  holds  it  still, 
And  but  two  ways  are  offered  to  our  will, 
Toil  with  rare  triumph,  ease  with  safe  disgrace, 
The  problem  still  for  us  and  all  of  human  race. 
He   chose,  as    men   choose,    where    most   danger 

showed, 

Nor  ever  faltered  'neath  the  load 
Of  petty  cares,  that  gall  great  hearts  the  most, 
But  kept  right  on  the  strenuous  up-hill  road, 
Strong  to  the  end,  above  complaint  or  boast : 
The  popular  tempest  on  his  rock-mailed  coast 
Wasted  its  wind-borne  spray, 
The  noisy  marvel  of  a  day  ; 
His  soul  sate  still  in  its  unstormed  abode. 


88  THREE   MEMORIAL  POEMS 


VIII. 

VIRGINIA  gave  us  this  imperial  man 

Cast  in  the  massive  mould 

Of  those  high-statured  ages  old 

Which  into  grander  forms  our  mortal  metal  ran  ; 

She  gave  us  this  unblemished  gentleman : 

What  shall  we  give  her  back  but  love  and  praise 

As  in  the  dear  old  unestranged  days 

Before  the  inevitable  wrong  began  ? 

Mother  of  States  and  undiminished  men, 

Thou  gavest  us  a  country,  giving  him, 

And  we  owe  alway  what  we  owed  thee  then : 

The  boon  thou  wouldst  have  snatched  from  us  agen 

Shines  as  before  with  no  abatement  dim. 

A  great  man's  memory  is  the  only  thing 

With  influence  to  outlast  the  present  whim 

And  bind  us  as  when  here  he  knit  our  golden  ring. 

All  of  him  that  was  subject  to  the  hours 

Lies  in  thy  soil  and  makes  it  part  of  ours : 

Across  more  recent  graves, 

Where  unresentful  Nature  waves 

Her  pennons  o'er  the  shot-ploughed  sod, 

Proclaiming  the  sweet  Truce  of  God, 

We  from  this  cpnsecrated  plain  stretch  out 

Our  hands  as  free  from  afterthought  or  doubt 

As  here  the  united  North 

Poured  her  embrowned  manhood  forth 

In  welcome  of  our  savior  and  thy  son. 

Through  battle  we  have  better  learned  thy  worth, 

The  long-breathed  valor  and  undaunted  will, 


ODE  FOR    THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY,   1876     89 

Which,  like  his  own,  the  day's  disaster  done, 

Could,  safe  in  manhood,  suffer  and  be  still. 

Both  thine  and  ours  the  victory  hardly  won ; 

If  ever  with  distempered  voice  or  pen 

We  have  misdeemed  thee,  here  we  take  it  back, 

And  for  the  dead  of  both  don  common  black. 

Be  to  us  evermore  as  thou  wast  then, 

As  we  forget  thou  hast  not  always  been, 

Mother  of  States  and  unpolluted  men, 

Virginia,  fitly  named  from  England's  manly  queen  ! 


AN  ODE 

FOR   THE    FOURTH    OF  JULY,   1876 
I. 
1. 

ENTKANCED  I  saw  a  vision  in  the  cloud 
That  loitered  dreaming  in  yon  sunset  sky, 
Full  of  fair  shapes,  half  creatures  of  the  eye, 
Half  chance-evoked  by  the  wind's  fantasy 
In  golden  ,mist,  an  ever-shifting  crowd  : 
There,  'mid  unreal  forms  that  came  and  went 
In  air-spun  robes,  of  evanescent  dye, 
A  woman's  semblance  shone  preeminent ; 
Not  armed  like  Pallas,  not  like  Hera  proud, 
But,  as  on  household  diligence  intent, 
Beside  her  visionary  wheel  she  bent 
Like  Arete  or  Bertha,  nor  than  they 
Less  queenly  in  her  port :  about  her  knee 
Glad  children  clustered  confident  in  play : 


90  THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS 

Placid  her  pose,  the  calm  of  energy ; 

And  over  her  broad  brow  in  many  a  round 

(That  loosened  would  have  gilt  her  garment's  hem), 

Succinct,  as  toil  prescribes,  the  hair  was  wound 

In  lustrous  coils,  a  natural  diadem. 

The  cloud  changed  shape,  obsequious  to  the  whim 

Of  some  transmuting  influence  felt  in  me, 

And,  looking  now,  a  wolf  I  seemed  to  see 

Limned  in  that  vapor,  gaunt  and  hunger-bold, 

Threatening  her  charge  :  resolve  in  every  limb, 

Erect  she  flamed  in  mail  of  sun-wove  gold, 

Penthesilea's  self  for  battle  dight ; 

One  arm  uplifted  braced  a  flickering  spear, 

And  one  her  adamantine  shield  made  light ; 

Her  face,  helm-shadowed,  grew  a  thing  to  fear, 

And  her  fierce  eyes,  by  danger  challenged,  took 

Her  trident-sceptred  mother's  dauntless  look. 

"  I  know  thee  now,  O  goddess-born  !  "  I  cried, 

And  turned  with  loftier  brow  and  firmer  stride ; 

For  in  that  spectral  cloud-work  I  had  seen 

Her  image,  bodied  forth  by  love  and  pride, 

The  fearless,  the  benign,  the  mother-eyed, 

The  fairer  world's  toil-consecrated  queen. 


What  shape  by  exile  dreamed  elates  the  mind 
Like  hers  whose  hand,  a  fortress  of  the  poor, 
No  blood  in  vengeance  spilt,  though  lawful,  stains  ? 
Who  never  turned  a  suppliant  from  her  door? 
Whose  conquests  are  the  gains  of  all  mankind  ? 
To-day  her  thanks  shall  fly  on  every  wind, 
Unstinted,  unrebuked,  from  shore  to  shore, 


ODE  FOR    THE  FOURTH   OF  JULY,  1876    91 

One  love,  one  hope,  and  not  a  doubt  behind ! 
Cannon  to  cannon  shall  repeat  her  praise, 
Banner  to  banner  flap  it  forth  in  flame  ; 
Her  children  shall  rise  up  to  bless  her  name, 
And  wish  her  harmless  length  of  days. 
The  mighty  mother  of  a  mighty  brood, 
Blessed  in  all  tongues  and  dear  to  every  blood, 
The  beautiful,  the  strong,  and,  best  of  all,  the  good ! 

3. 

Seven  years  long  was  the  bow 

Of  battle  bent,  and  the  heightening 

Storm-heaps  convulsed  with  the  throe 

Of  their  uncontainable  lightning; 

Seven  years  long  heard  the  sea 

Crash  of  navies  and  wave-borne  thunder ; 

Then  drifted  the  cloud-rack  a-lee, 

And  new  stars  were  seen,  a  world's  wonder ; 

Each  by  her  sisters  made  bright, 

All  binding  all  to  their  stations, 

Cluster  of  manifold  light 

Startling  the  old  constellations : 

Men  looked  up  and  grew  pale : 

Was  it  a  comet  or  star, 

Omen  of  blessing  or  bale, 

Hung  o'er  the  ocean  afar  ? 

4. 

Stormy  the  day  of  her  birth : 
Was  she  not  born  of  the  strong, 
She,  the  last  ripeness  of  earth, 
Beautiful,  prophesied  long  ? 


92  THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS 

Stormy  the  days  of  her  prime : 
Hers  are  the  pulses  that  beat 
Higher  for  perils  sublime, 
Making  them  fawn  at  her  feet. 
Was  she  not  born  of  the  strong  ? 
Was  she  not  born  of  the  wise  ? 
Daring  and  counsel  belong 
Of  right  to  her  confident  eyes: 
Human  and  motherly  they, 
Careless  of  station  or  race  : 
Hearken  !  her  children  to-day 
Shout  for  the  joy  of  her  face. 


II. 

1. 

No  praises  of  the  past  are  hers, 

No  fanes  by  hallowing  time  caressed, 

No  broken  arch  that  ministers 

To  Time's  sad  instinct  in  the  breast ; 

She  has  not  gathered  from  the  years 

Grandeur  of  tragedies  and  tears,' 

Nor  from  long  leisure  the  unrest 

That  finds  repose  in  forms  of  classic  grace  : 

These  may  delight  the  coming  race 

Who  haply  shall  not  count  it  to  our  crime 

That  we  who  fain  would  sing  are  here  before  our 

time. 

She  also  hath  her  monuments  ; 
Not  such  as  stand  decrepitly  resigned 
To  ruin-mark  the  path  of  dead  events 


ODE  FOR    THE   FOURTH  OF  JULY,   1876    93 

That  left  no  seed  of  better  days  behind, 

The  tourist's  pensioners  that  show  their  scars 

And  maunder  of  forgotten  wars ; 

She  builds  not  on  the  ground,  but  in  the  mind, 

Her  open-hearted  palaces 

For  larger-thoughted  men  with  heaven  and  earth 

afc  ease : 
Her   march  the  plump   mow  marks,  the  sleepless 

wheel, 

The  golden  sheaf,  the  self -swayed  commonweal ; 
The  happy  homesteads  hid  in  orchard  trees 
Whose  sacrificial  smokes  through  peaceful  air 
Rise  lost  in  heaven,  the  household's  silent  prayer ; 
What  architect  hath  bettered  these  ? 
With  softened  eye  the  westward  traveller  sees 
A  thousand  miles  of  neighbors  side  by  side, 
Holding  by  toil-won  titles  fresh  from  God 
The  lands  no  serf  or  seigneur  ever  trod, 
With  manhood  latent  in  the  very  sod, 
Where  the  long  billow  of  the  wheatfield's  tide 
Flows  to  the  sky  across  the  prairie  wide, 
A  sweeter  vision  than  the  castled  Rhine, 
Kindly  with  thoughts  of  Ruth  and  Bible-days  be- 
nign. 

2. 

O  ancient  commonwealths,  that  we  revere 
Haply  because  we  could  not  know  you  near, 
Your  deeds  like  statues  down  the  aisles  of  Time 
Shine  peerless  *in  memorial  calm  sublime, 
And  Athens  is  a  trumpet  still,  and  Rome ; 
Yet  which  of  your  achievements  is  not  foam 


94  THREE   MEMORIAL   POEMS 

Weighed  with  this  one  of  hers  (below  you  far 
In  fame,  and  born  beneath  a  milder  star), 
That  to  Earth's  orphans,  far  as  curves  the  dome 
Of  death-deaf  sky,  the  bounteous  West  means  home, 
With  dear  precedency  of  natural  ties 
That  stretch  from  roof  to  roof  and  make  men  gen- 
tly wise  ? 

And  if  the  nobler  passions  wane, 
Distorted  to  base  use,  if  the  near  goal 
Of  insubstantial  gain 

Tempt  from  the  proper  race-course  of  the  soul 
That  crowns  their  patient  breath 
Whose  feet,  song-sandalled,  are  too  fleet  for  Death, 
Yet  may  she  claim  one  privilege  urbane 
And  haply  first  upon  the  civic  roll, 
That  none  can  breathe  her  air  nor  grow  humane. 

3. 

Oh,  better  far  the  briefest  hour 

Of  Athens  self -consumed,  whose  plastic  power 

Hid  Beauty  safe  from  Death  in  words  or  stone ; 

Of  Rome,  fair  quarry  where  those  eagles  crowd 

Whose  fulgurous  vans  about  the  world  had  blown 

Triumphant  storm  and  seeds  of  polity ; 

Of  Venice,  fading  o'er  her  shipless  sea, 

Last  iridescence  of  a  sunset  cloud  ; 

Than  this  inert  prosperity, 

This  bovine  comfort  in  the  sense  alone ! 

Yet  art  came  slowly  even  to  such  as  those, 

Whom  no  past  genius  cheated  of  their  own 

With  prudence  of  o'ermastering  precedent ; 

Petal  by  petal  spreads  the  perfect  rose, 


ODE  FOR    THE  FOURTH   OF  JULY,   1876    95 

Secure  of  the  divine  event ; 

And  only  children  rend  the  bud  half-blown 

To  forestall  Nature  in  her  calm  intent : 

Time  hath  a  quiver  full  of  purposes 

Which  miss  not  of  their  aim,  to  us  unknown, 

And  brings  about  the  impossible  with  ease : 

Haply  for  us  the  ideal  dawn  shall  break 

From  where  in  legend-tinted  line 

The  peaks  of  Hellas  drink  the  morning's  wine, 

To  tremble  on  our  lids  with  mystic  sign 

Till  the  drowsed  ichor  in  our  veins  awake 

And  set  our  pulse  in  tune  with  moods  divine : 

Long  the  day  lingered  in  its  sea-fringed  nest, 

Then  touched  the  Tuscan  hills  with  golden  lance 

And  paused ;  then  on  to  Spain  and  France 

The  splendor  flew,  and  Albion's  misty  crest : 

Shall  Ocean  bar  him  from  his  destined  West  ? 

Or  are  we,  then,  arrived  too  late, 

Doomed  with  the  rest  to  grope  disconsolate, 

Foreclosed  of  Beauty  by  our  modern  date  ? 


HI 

1. 

POETS,  as  their  heads  grow  gray, 
Look  from  too  far  behind  the  eyes, 
Too  long-experienced  to  be  wise 
In  guileless  youth's  diviner  way  ; 
Life  sings  not  now,  but  prophesies ; 
Time's  shadows  they  no  more  behold, 
But,  under  them,  the  riddle  old 


96  THREE   MEMORIAL   POEMS 

That  mocks,  bewilders,  and  defies  : 
In  childhood's  face  the  seed  of  shame, 
In  the  green  tree  an  ambushed  flame, 
In  Phosphor  a  vaunt-guard  of  Night, 
They,  though  against  their  will,  divine, 
And  dread  the  care-dispelling  wine 
Stored  from  the  Muse's  vintage  bright, 
By  age  imbued  with  second -sight. 
From  Faith's  own  eyelids  there  peeps  out, 
Even  as  they  look,  the  leer  of  doubt ; 
The  festal  wreath  their  fancy  loads 
With  care  that  whispers  and  forebodes  : 
Nor   this    our   triumph-day   can   blunt   Megsera's 
goads. 

2. 

Murmur  of  many  voices  in  the  air 

Denounces  us  degenerate, 

Unfaithful  guardians  of  a  noble  fate, 

And  prompts  indifference  or  despair : 

Is  this  the  country  that  we  dreamed  in  youth, 

Where    wisdom    and    not    numbers    should    have 

weight, 

Seed-field  of  simpler  manners,  braver  truth, 
Where  shams  should  cease  to  dominate 
In  household,  church,  and  state  ? 
Is  this  Atlantis  ?     This  the  unpoisoned  soil, 
Sea-whelmed  for  ages  and  recovered  late, 
Where  parasitic  greed  no  more  should  coil 
Round  Freedom's,  stem  to  bend  awry  and  blight 
What  grew  so  fair,  sole  plant  of  love  and  light  ? 
Who  sit  where  once  in  crowned  seclusion  sate 


ODE  FOR    THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY,  1876    97 

The  long-proved  athletes  of  debate 

Trained  from  their  youth,  as  none  thinks  needful 

now? 

Is  this  debating  club  where  boys  dispute, 
And  wrangle  o'er  their  stolen  fruit, 
The  Senate,  erewhile  cloister  of  the  few, 
Where  Clay  once  flashed  and   Webster's  cloudy 

brow 
Brooded  those  bolts  of  thought  that  all  the  horizon 

knew? 

3. 

Oh,  as  this  pensive  moonlight  blurs  my  pines, 

Here  while  I  sit  and  meditate  these  lines, 

To  gray-green  dreams  of  what  they  are  by  day, 

So  would  some  light,  not  reason's  sharp-edged  ray, 

Trance  me  in  moonshine  as  before  the  flight 

Of  years  had  won  me  this  unwelcome  right 

To  see  things  as  they  are,  or  shall  be  soon, 

In  the  frank  prose  of  undissembling  noon ! 

4. 

Back  to  my  breast,  ungrateful  sigh ! 

Whoever  fails,  whoever  errs, 

The  penalty  be  ours,  not  hers ! 

The  present  still  seems  vulgar,  seen  too  nigh  ; 

The  golden  age  is  still  the  age  that 's  past : 

I  ask  no  drowsy  opiate 

To  dull  my  vision  of  that  only  state 

Founded  on  faith  in  man,  and  therefore  sure  to 

last. 
For,  O  my  country,  touched  by  thee, 


98  THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS 

The  gray  hairs  gather  back  their  gold  ; 

Thy  thought  sets  all  my  pulses  free ; 

The  heart  refuses  to  be  old ; 

The  love  is  all  that  I  can  see. 

Not  to  thy  natal-day  belong 

Time's  prudent  doubt  or  age's  wrong, 

But  gifts  of  gratitude  and  song  : 

Unsummoned  crowd  the  thankful  words, 

As  sap  in  spring-time  floods  the  tree, 

Foreboding  the  return  of  birds, 

For  all  that  thou  hast  been  to  me  ! 


IV. 

1. 

FLAWLESS  his  heart  and  tempered  to  the  core 
Who,  beckoned  by  the  forward-leaning  wave, 
First  left  behind  him  the  firm-footed  shore, 
And,  urged  by  every  nerve  of  sail  and  oar, 
Steered  for  the  Unknown  which  gods  to  mortals 

gave, 

Of  thought  and  action  the  mysterious  door, 
Bugbear  of  fools,  a  summons  to  the  brave : 
Strength  found  he  in  the  unsyinpathizing  sun, 
And  strange  stars  from  beneath  the  horizon  won, 
And  the  dumb  ocean  pitilessly  grave  : 
High-hearted  surely  he ;' 
But  bolder  they  who  first  off-cast 
Their  moorings  from  the  habitable  Past 
And  ventured  chartless  on  the  sea 
Of  storm-engendering  Liberty : 


ODE   FOR    THE    FOURTH   OF  JULY,   1876     99 

For  all  earth's  width  of  waters  is  a  span, 
And  their  convulsed  existence  mere  repose, 
Matched  with  the  unstable  heart  of  man, 
Shoreless  in  wants,  mist-girt  in  all  it  knows, 
Open  to  every  wind  of  sect  or  clan, 
And  sudden-passionate  in  ebbs  and  flows. 

2. 

They  steered  by  stars  the  elder  shipmen  knew, 

And  laid  their  courses  where  the  currents  draw 

Of  ancient  wisdom  channelled  deep  in  law, 

The  undaunted  few 

Who  changed  the  Old  World  for  the  New, 

And  more  devoutly  prized 

Than  all  perfection  theorized 

The  more  imperfect  that  had  roots  and  grew. 

They  founded  deep  and  well, 

Those  danger-chosen  chiefs  of  men 

Who  still  believed  in  Heaven  and  Hell, 

Nor  hoped  to  find  a  spell, 

In  some  fine  flourish  of  a  pen, 

To  make  a  better  man 

Than  long-considering  Nature  will  or  can, 

Secure  against  his  own  mistakes, 

Content  with  what  life  gives  or  takes, 

And  acting  still  on  some  fore-ordered  plan, 

A  cog  of  iron  in  an  iron  wheel. 

Too  nicely  poised  to  think  or  feel, 

Dumb  motor  in  a  clock-like  commonweal. 

They  wasted  not  their  brain  in  schemes 

Of  what  man  might  be  in  some  bubble-sphere, 

As  if  he  must  be  other  than  he  seems 


100  THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS 

Because  he  was  not  what  he  should  be  here, 

Postponing  Time's  slow  proof  to  petulant  dreams : 

Yet  herein  they  were  great 

Beyond  the  incredulous  lawgivers  of  yore, 

And  wiser  than  the  wisdom  of  the  shelf, 

That  they  conceived  a  deeper-rooted  state, 

Of  hardier  growth,  alive  from  rind  to  core, 

By  making  man  sole  sponsor  of  himself. 

3. 

God  of  our  fathers,  Thou  who  wast, 

Art,  and  shalt  be  when  those  eye-wise  who  flout 

Thy  secret  presence  shall  be  lost 

In  the  great  light  that  dazzles  them  to  doubt, 

We,  sprung  from  loins  of  stalwart  men 

Whose  strength  was  in  their  trust 

That  Thou  wouldst  make  thy  dwelling  in  their  dust 

And  walk  with  those  a  fellow-citizen 

Who  build  a  city  of  the  just, 

We,  who  believe  Life's  bases  rest 

Beyond  the  probe  of  chemic  test, 

Still,  like  our  fathers,  feel  Thee  near, 

Sure  that,  while  lasts  the  immutable  decree, 

The  land  to  Human  Nature  dear 

Shall  not  be  unbeloved  of  Thee. 


HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

AGASSIZ 

Come 

Dicesti  egli  ebbe  ?  non  viv'  egli  ancora  ? 
Non  fiere  gli  occhi  suoi  lo  dolce  lome  ? 


1. 

THE  electric  nerve,  whose  instantaneous  thrill 
Makes  next-door  gossips  of  the  antipodes, 
Confutes  poor  Hope's  last  fallacy  of  ease,  — 
The  distance  that  divided  her  from  ill : 
Earth  sentient  seems  again  as  when  of  old 

The  horny  foot  of  Pan 
Stamped,  and  the  conscious  horror  ran 
Beneath  men's  feet  through  all  her  fibres  cold  : 
Space's  blue  walls  are  mined  ;  we  feel  the  throe 
From  underground  of  our  night-mantled  foe : 

The  flame-winged  feet 
Of  Trade's  new  Mercury,  that  dry-shod  run 
Through  briny  abysses  dreamless  of  the  sun, 

Are  mercilessly  fleet, 
And  at  a  bound  annihilate 
Ocean's  prerogative  of  short  reprieve ; 

Surely  ill  news  might  wait, 


102  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

And  man  be  patient  of  delay  to  grieve : 

Letters  have  sympathies 
And  tell-tale  faces  that  reveal, 
To  senses  finer  than  the  eyes, 
Their  errand's  purport  ere  we  break  the  seal ; 
They  wind  a  sorrow  round  with  circumstance 
To  stay  its  feet,  nor  all  unwarned  displace 
The  veil  that  darkened  from  our  sidelong  glance 

The  inexorable  face : 
But  now  Fate  stuns  as  with  a  mace ; 
The  savage  of  the  skies,  that  men  have  caught 
And  some  scant  use  of  language  taught, 

TeHs  only  what  he  must,  — 
The  steel-cold  fact  in  one  laconic  thrust. 


So  thought  I,  as,  with  vague,  mechanic  eyes, 
I  scanned  the  festering  news  we  half  despise 

Yet  scramble  for  no  less, 
And  read  of  public  scandal,  private  fraud, 
Crime  flaunting  scot-free  while  the  mob  applaud, 
Office  made  vile  to  bribe  unworthiness, 

And  all  the  unwholesome  mess 
The  Land  of  Honest  Abraham  serves  of  late 
To  teach  the  Old  World  how  to  wait, 

When  suddenly, 
As  happens  if  the  brain,  from  overweight 

Of  blood,  infect  the  eye, 
Three  tiny  words  grew  lurid  as  I  read, 
And  reeled  commingling  :  Agassiz  is  dead. 
As  when,  beneath  the  street's  familiar  jar, 
An  earthquake's  alien  omen  rumbles  far, 


AGASSIZ  103 

Men  listen  and  forebode,  I  hung  my  head, 

And  strove  the  present  to  recall, 
As  if  the  blow  that  stunned  were  yet  to  fall. 

3. 

Uprooted  is  our  mountain  oak, 
That  promised  long  security  of  shade 
And  brooding-place  for  many  a  winged  thought ; 

Not  by  Time's  softly-cadenced  stroke 
With  pauses  of  relenting  pity  stayed, 
But  ere  a  root  seemed  sapt,  a  bough  decayed, 
From  sudden  ambush  by  the  whirlwind  caught 
And  in  his  broad  maturity  betrayed  1 

4. 

Well  might  I,  as  of  old,  appeal  to  you, 

O  mountains  woods  and  streams, 
To  help  us  mourn  him,  for  ye  loved  him  too ; 

But  simpler  moods  befit  our  modern  themes, 
And  no  less  perfect  birth  of  nature  can, 
Though  they  yearn  tow'rd  him,  sympathize  with 

man, 
Save  as  dumb  fellow-prisoners  through  a  wall ; 

Answer  ye  rather  to  my  call, 
Strong  poets  of  a  more  unconscious  day, 
When    Nature    spake    nor  sought    nice    reasons 

why, 

Too  much  for  softer  arts  forgotten  since 
That    teach    our   forthright    tongue   to    lisp  and 

mince, 

And  drown  in  music  the  heart's  bitter  cry ! 
Lead  me  some  steps  in  your  directer  way, 


104  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Teach  me  those  words  that  strike  a  solid  root 

Within  the  ears  of  men  ; 
Ye  chiefly,  virile  both  to  think  and  feel, 
Deep-chested  Chapman  and  firm-footed  Ben, 
For  he  was  masculine  from  head  to  heel. 
Nay,  let  himself  stand  undiminished  by 
With  those  clear  parts  of  him  that  will  not  die. 
Himself  from  out  the  recent  dark  I  claim 
To  hear,  and,  if  I  flatter  him,  to  blame  ; 
To  show  himself,  as  still  I  seem  to  see, 
A  mortal,  built  upon  the  antique  plan, 
Brimful  of  lusty  blood  as  ever  ran, 
And  taking  life  as  simply  as  a  tree ! 
To  claim  my  foiled  good-bye  let  him  appear, 
Large-limbed  and  human  as  I  saw  him  near, 
Loosed  from  the  stiffening  uniform  of  fame  : 
And  let  me  treat  him  largely :  I  should  fear, 
(If  with  too  prying  lens  I  chanced  to  err, 
Mistaking  catalogue  for  character,) 
His  wise  forefinger  raised  in  smiling  blame. 
Nor  would  I  scant  him  with  judicial  breath 
And  turn  mere  critic  in  an  epitaph ; 
I  choose  the  wheat,  incurious  of  the  chaff 
That  swells  fame  living,  chokes  it  after  death, 
And  would  but  memorize  the  shining  half 
Of  his  large  nature  that  was  turned  to  me  : 
Fain  had  I  joined  with  those  that  honored  him 
With  eyes  that  darkened  because  his  were  dim. 
And  now  been  silent :  but  it  might  not  be. 


AGASS1Z  105 

II. 

1. 

In  some  the  genius  is  a  thing  apart, 

A  pillared  hermit  of  the  brain, 
Hoarding  with  incommunicable  art 
Its  intellectual  gain  ; 

Man's  web  of  circumstance  and  fate 

They  from  their  perch  of  self  observe, 
Indifferent  as  the  figures  on  a  slate 

Are  to  the  planet's  sun-swung  curve 

Whose  bright  returns  they  calculate ; 

Their  nice  adjustment,  part  to  part, 
Were  shaken  from  its  serviceable  mood 
By  unpremeditated  stirs  of  heart 

Or  jar  of  human  neighborhood  : 
Some  find  their  natural  selves,  and  only  then, 
In  furloughs  of  divine  escape  from  men, 
And  when,  by  that  brief  ecstasy  left  bare, 

Driven  by  some  instinct  of  desire, 
They  wander  worldward,  't  is  to  blink  and  stare, 
Like  wild  things  of  the  wood  about  a  fire, 
Dazed  by  the  social  glow  they  cannot  share  ; 

His  nature  brooked  no  lonely  lair, 
But  basked  and  bourgeoned  in  copartnery, 
Companionship,  and  open-windowed  glee : 
He  knew,  for  he  had  tried, 

Those  speculative  heights  that  lure 
The  unpractised  foot,  impatient  of  a  guide, 

Tow'rd  ether  too  attenuately  pure 
For  sweet  unconscious  breath,  though  dear  to  pride, 


106  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

But  better  loved  the  foothold  sure 
Of  paths  that  wind  by  old  abodes  of  men 
Who  hope  at  last  the  churchyard's  peace  secure, 
And  follow  time-worn  rules,  that  them  suffice, 
Learned  from  their  sires,  traditionally  wise, 
Careful  of  honest  custom's  how  and  when ; 
His  mind,  too  brave  to  look  on  Truth  askance, 
No  more  those  habitudes  of  faith  could  share, 
But,  tinged  with  sweetness  of  the  old  Swiss  manse, 
Lingered  around  them  still  and  fain  would  spare. 
Patient  to  spy  a  sullen  egg  for  weeks, 
The  enigma  of  creation  to  surprise, 
His  truer  instinct  sought  the  life  that  speaks 
Without  a  mystery  from  kindly  eyes  ; 
In  no  self -spun  cocoon  of  prudence  wound, 
He  by  the  touch  of  men  was  best  inspired, 
And  caught  his  native  greatness  at  rebound 
From  generosities  itself  had  fired  ; 
Then  how  the  heat  through  every  fibre  ran, 
Felt  in  the  gathering  presence  of  the  man, 
While  the  apt  word  and  gesture  came  unbidl 
Virtues  and  faults  it  to  one  metal  wrought, 

Fined  all  his  blood  to  thought, 
And  ran  the  molten  man  in  all  he  said  or  did. 
All  Tully's  rules  and  all  Quintilian's  too 
He  by  the  light  of  listening  faces  knew, 
And  his  rapt  audience  all  unconscious  lent 
Their  own  roused  force  to  make  him  eloquent ; 
Persuasion  fondled  in  his  look  and  tone  ; 
Our  speech    (with    strangers    prudish)   he    could 

bring 
To  find  new  charm  in  accents  not  her  own ; 


AGASSIZ  107 

Her  coy  constraints  and  icy  hindrances 

Melted  upon  his  lips  to  natural  ease, 

As  a  brook's  fetters  swell  the  dance  of  spring. 

Nor  yet  all  sweetness :  not  in  vain  he  wore, 

Nor  in  the  sheath  of  ceremony,  controlled 

By  velvet  courtesy  or  caution  cold, 

That  sword  of  honest  anger  prized  of  old, 

But,  with  two-handed  wrath, 
If  baseness  or  pretension  crossed  his  path, 
Struck  once  nor  needed  to  strike  more. 

2. 

His  magic  was  not  far  to  seek,  — 
He  was  so  human  !     Whether  strong  or  weak, 
Far  from  his  kind  he  neither  sank  nor  soared, 
But  sate  an  equal  guest  at  every  board : 
No  beggar  ever  felt  him  condescend, 
No  prince  presume  ;  for  still  himself  he  bare 
At  manhood's  simple  level,  and  where'er 
He  met  a  stranger,  there  he  left  a  friend. 
How  large  an  aspect!  nobly  unsevere, 
With  freshness  round  him  of  Olympian  cheer. 
Like  visits  of  those  earthly  gods  he  came  ; 
His  look,  wherever  its  good-fortune  fell, 
Doubled  the  feast  without  a  miracle, 
And  on  the  hearthstone  danced  a  happier  flame ; 
Philemon's  crabbed  vintage  grew  benign : 
Amphitryon's  gold-juice  humanized  to  wine. 


108  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

.III. 

1. 

The  garrulous  memories 
Gather  again  from  all  their  far-flown  nooks, 
Singly  at  first,  and  then  by  twos  and  threes, 
Then  in  a  throng  innumerable,  as  the  rooks 

Thicken  their  twilight  files    . 
Tow'rd  Tintern's  gray  repose  of  roofless  aisles : 
Once  more  I  see  him  at  the  table's  head 
When  Saturday  her  monthly  banquet  spread 

To  scholars,  poets,  wits, 

All  choice,  some  famous,  loving  things,  not  names, 
And  so  without  a  twinge  at  others'  fames ; 
Such  company  as  wisest  moods  befits, 
Yet  with  no  pedant  blindness  to  the  worth 

Of  undeliberate  mirth, 
Natures  benignly  mixed  of  air  and  earth, 
Now  with  the  stars  and  now  with  equal  zest 
Tracing  the  eccentric  orbit  of  a  jest. 


I  see  in  vision  the  warm-lighted  hall, 
The  living  and  the  dead  I  see  again, 
And  but  my  chair  is  empty  ;  'mid  them  all 
'T  is  I  that  seem  the  dead  :  they  all  remain 
Immortal,  changeless  creatures  of  the  brain : 
Wellnigh  I  doubt  which  world  is  real  most, 
Of  sense  or  spirit,  to  the  truly  sane ; 
In  this  abstraction  it  were  light  to  deem 
Myself  the  figment  of  some  stronger  dream  ; 


AGASS1Z  109 

They  are  the  real  things,  and  I  the  ghost 
That  glide  unhindered  through  the  solid  door, 
Vainly  for  recognition  seek  from  chair  to  chair, 
And  strive  to  speak  and  am  but  futile  air, 
As  truly  most  of  us  are  little  more. 

3. 

Him  most  I  see  whom  we  most  dearly  miss, 

The  latest  parted  thence, 
His  features  poised  in  genial  armistice 
And  armed  neutrality  of  self-defence 
Beneath  the  forehead's  walled  preeminence, 
While  Tyro,  plucking  facts  with  careless  reach, 
Settles  off-hand  our  human  how  and  whence  ; 
The  long-trained  veteran  scarcely  wincing  hears 
The  infallible  strategy  of  volunteers 
Making  through  Nature's  walls  its  easy  breach, 
And  seems  to  learn  where  he  alone  could  teach. 
Ample  and  ruddy,  the  board's  end  he  fills 
As  he  our  fireside  were,  our  light  and  heat, 
Centre  where  minds  diverse  and  various  skills 
Find   their  warm   nook  and   stretch   unhampered 

feet; 

I  see  the  firm  benignity  of  face, 
Wide-smiling  champaign,  without  tameness  sweet, 
The  mass  Teutonic  toned  to  Gallic  grace, 
The  eyes  whose  sunshine  runs  before  the  lips 
While  Holmes's  rockets  curve  their  long  ellipse, 
And  burst  in  seeds  of  fire  that  burst  again 

To  drop  in  scintillating  rain. 


110  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

4. 

There  too  the  face  half-rustic,  half-divine, 
Self-poised,  sagacious,  freaked  with  humor  fine, 
Of  him  who  taught  us  not  to  mow  and  mope 
About  our  fancied  selves,  but  seek  our  scope 
In  Nature's  world  and  Man's,  nor  fade  to  hollow 

trope, 

Content  with  our  New  World  and  timely  bold 
To  challenge  the  o'ermastery  of  the  Old ; 
Listening  with  eyes  averse  I  see  him  sit 
Pricked  with  the  cider  of  the  Judge's  wit 
(Ripe-hearted  homebrew,  fresh  and  fresh  again), 
While  the  wise  nose's  firm-built  aquiline 

Curves  sharper  to  restrain 
The  merriment  whose  most  unruly  moods 
Pass  not  the  dumb   laugh  learned   in  listening 
woods 

Of  silence-shedding  pine : 
Hard  by  is  he  whose  art's  consoling  spell 
Hath  given  both  worlds  a  whiff  of  asphodel, 
His  look  still  vernal  'mid  the  wintry  ring 
Of  petals  that  remember,  not  foretell, 
The  paler  primrose  of  a  second  spring. 

5. 

And  more  there  are :  but  other  forms  arise 
And  seen  as  clear,  albeit  with  dimmer  eyes  : 
First  he  from  sympathy  still  held  apart 
By  shrinking  over-eagerness  of  heart, 
Cloud  charged  with  searching  fire,  whose  shad- 
ow's sweep 

Heightened  mean  things  with  sense  of  brooding 
ill, 


AGASSIZ  111 

And  steeped  in  doom  familiar  field  and  hill,  — 
New  England's  poet,  soul  reserved  and  deep, 
November  nature  with  a  name  of  May, 
Whom  high  o'er  Concord  plains  we  laid  to  sleep, 
While  the  orchards  mocked  us  in   their  white 

array 

And  building  robins  wondered  at  our  tears, 
Snatched  in  his  prime,  the  shape  august 
That  should  have  stood  unbent  'neath  fourscore 

years, 

The  noble  head,  the  eyes  of  furtive  trust, 
All  gone  to  speechless  dust. 
And  he  our  passing  guest, 
Shy  nature,  too,  and  stung  with  life's  unrest, 
Whom  we  too  briefly  had  but  could  not  hold, 
Who  brought  ripe  Oxford's  culture  to  our  board, 

The  Past's  incalculable  hoard, 
Mellowed  by  scutcheoned  panes  in  cloisters  old, 
Seclusions  ivy-hushed,  and  pavements  sweet 
With  immemorial  lisp  of  musing  feet ; 
Young   head    time  -  tonsured   smoother   than   a 

friar's, 

Boy  face,  but  grave  with  answerless  desires, 
Poet  in  all  that  poets  have  of  best, 
But  foiled  with  riddles  dark  and  cloudy  aims, 

Who  now  hath  found  sure  rest, 
Not  by  still  Isis  or  historic  Thames, 
Nor  by  the  Charles  he  tried  to  love  with  me, 
But,  not  misplaced,  by  Arno's  hallowed  brim, 
Nor  scorned  by  Santa  Croce's  neighboring  fames, 

Haply  not  mindless,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 
Of  violets  that  to-day  I  scattered  over  him ; 


112  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

He,  too,  is  there, 

After  the  good  centurion  fitly  named, 
Whom  learning  dulled  not,  nor  convention  tamed, 
Shaking  with  burly  mirth  his  hyacinthine  hair, 
Our  hearty  Grecian  of  Homeric  ways, 
Still  found  the  surer  friend  where  least  he  hoped 
the  praise. 

6. 

Yea  truly,  as  the  sallowing  years 
Fall  from  us  faster,  like  frost-loosened  leaves 
Pushed  by  the  misty  touch  of  shortening  days, 

And  that  unwakened  winter  nears, 
'T  is  the  void  chair  our  surest  guest  receives, 
'T  is  lips  long  cold  that  give  the  warmest  kiss, 
'T  is  the  lost  voice  comes  oftenest  to  our  ears ; 
We  count  our  rosary  by  the  beads  we  miss : 

To  me,  at  least,  it  seemeth  so, 
An  exile  in  the  land  once  found  divine, 

While  my  starved  fire  burns  low, 
And  homeless  winds  at  the  loose  casement  whine 
Shrill  ditties  of  the  snow-roofed  Apennine. 


IV. 


1. 

Now  forth  into  the  darkness  all  are  gone, 
But  memory,  still  unsated,  follows  on, 
Retracing  step  by  step  our  homeward  walk, 
With  many  a  laugh  among  our  serious  talk, 
Across  the  bridge  where,  on  the  dimpling  tide, 


AGASSIZ  113 

The  long  red  streamers  from  the  windows  glide, 

Or  the  dim  western  moon 
Rocks  her  skiff's  image  on  the  broad  lagoon, 
And  Boston  shows  a  soft  Venetian  side 
In  that  Arcadian  light  when  roof  and  tree, 
Hard  prose  by  daylight,  dream  in  Italy ; 
Or  haply  in  the  sky's  cold  chambers  wide 
Shivered  the  winter  stars,  while  all  below, 
As  if  an  end  were  come  of  human  ill, 
The  world  was  wrapt  in  innocence  of  snow 
And  the  cast-iron  bay  was  blind  and  still ; 
These  were  our  poetry ;  in  him  perhaps 
Science  had  barred  the  gate  that  lets  in  dream, 
And  he  would  rather  count  the  perch  and  bream 
Than  with  the  current's  idle  fancy  lapse ; 
And  yet  he  had  the  poet's  open  eye 
That  takes  a  frank  delight  in  all  it  sees, 
Nor  was  earth  voiceless,  nor  the  mystic  sky, 
To  him  the  life-long  friend  of  fields  and  trees : 
Then  came  the  prose  of  the  suburban  street, 
Its  silence  deepened  by  our  echoing  feet, 
And  converse  such  as  rambling  hazard  finds ; 
Then  he  who  many  cities  knew  and  many  minds, 
And  men  once  world-noised,  now  mere    Ossian 

forms 

Of  misty  memory,  bade  them  live  anew 
As  when  they  shared  earth's  manifold  delight, 
In  shape,  in  gait,  in  voice,  in  gesture  true, 
And,  with  an  accent  heightening  as  he  warms, 
Would  stop  forgetful  of  the  shortening  night, 
Drop  my  confining  arm,  and  pour  profuse 
Much  worldly  wisdom  kept  for  others'  use, 


114  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Not  for  his  own,  for  he  was  rash  arid  free, 
His  purse  or  knowledge  all  men's,  like  the  sea. 
Still  can  I  hear  his  voice's  shrilling  might 
(With  pauses  broken,  while  the  fitful  spark 
He  blew  more  hotly  rounded  on  the  dark 
To  hint  his  features  with  a  Rembrandt  light) 
Call  Oken  back,  or  Humboldt,  or  Lamarck, 
Or  Cuvier's  taller  shade,  and  many  more 
Whom  he  had  seen,  or  knew  from  others'  sight, 
And  make  them  men  to  me  as  ne'er  before  : 
Not  seldom,  as  the  undeadened  fibre  stirred 
Of  noble  friendships  knit  beyond  the  sea, 
German  or  French  thrust  by  the  lagging  word, 
For  a  good  leash  of  mother-tongues  had  he. 
At  last,  arrived  at  where  our  paths  divide, 

"  Good  night !  "  and,  ere  the  distance   grew  too 
wide, 

c*  Good   night !  "    again ;   and   now   with   cheated 

ear 
I  half  hear  his  who  mine  shall  never  hear. 

2. 

Sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  New  England  air 
For  his  large  lungs  too  parsimonious  were, 
As  if  those  empty  rooms  of  dogma  drear 
Where  the  ghost  shivers  of  a  faith  austere 

Counting  the  horns  o'er  of  the  Beast, 
Still  scaring  those  whose  faith  in  it  is  least, 
As  if  those  snaps  o'  th'  moral  atmosphere 
That  sharpen  all  the  needles  of  the  East, 

.Had  been  to  him  like  death, 
Accustomed  to  draw  Europe's  freer  breath 


AGASSI Z  115 

In  a  more  stable  element ; 
Nay,  even  our  landscape,  half  the  year  morose, 
Our  practical  horizon  grimly  pent, 
Our  air,  sincere  of  ceremonious  haze, 
Forcing  hard  outlines  mercilessly  close, 
Our  social  monotone  of  level  days, 

Might  make  our  best  seem  banishment ; 
But  it  was  nothing  so  ; 

Haply  his  instinct  might  divine, 
Beneath  our  drift  of  puritanic  snow, 

The  marvel  sensitive  and  fine 
Of  sanguinaria  over-rash  to  blow 
And  trust  its  shyness  to  an  air  malign ; 
Well  might  he  prize  truth's  warranty  and  pledge 
In  the  grim  outcrop  of  our  granite  edge, 
Or  Hebrew  fervor  flashing  forth  at  need 
In  the  gaunt  sons  of  Calvin's  iron  breed, 
As  prompt  to  give  as  skilled  to  win  and  keep ; 
But,  though  such  intuitions  might  not  cheer, 
Yet  life  was  good  to  him,  and,  there  or  here, 
With  that  sufficing  joy,  the  day  was  never  cheap ; 
Thereto  his  mind  was  its  own  ample  sphere, 
And,  like  those  buildings  great  that  through  the 

year 

Carry  one  temperature,  his  nature  large 
Made  its  own  climate,  nor  could  any  marge 
Traced  by  convention  stay  him  from  his  bent : 
He  had  a  habitude  of  mountain  air  ; 
He  brought  wide  outlook  where  he  went, 

And  could  on  sunny  uplands  dwell 
Of  prospect  sweeter  than  the  pastures  fair 

High-hung  of  viny  Neuf chatel ; 


116  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Nor,  surely,  did  he  miss 
Some  pale,  imaginary  bliss 

Of  earlier  sights  whose  inner  landscape  still  was 
Swfss. 

V. 
1. 

I  cannot  think  he  wished  so  soon  to  die 

With  all  his  senses  full  of  eager  heat, 

And  rosy  years  that  stood  expectant  by 

To  buckle  the  winged  sandals  on  their  feet, 

He  that  was  friends  with  Earth,  and  all  her  sweet 

Took  with  both  hands  unsparingly  : 

Truly  this  life  is  precious  to  the  root, 

And  good  the  feel  of  grass  beneath  the  foot ; 

To  lie  in  buttercups  and  clover-bloom, 

Tenants  in  common  with  the  bees, 
And  watch  the  white  clouds  drift  through  gulfs 

of  trees, 
Is  better  than  long  waiting  in  the  tomb ; 

Only  once  more  to  feel  the  coming  spring 
As  the  birds  feel  it,  when  it  bids  them  sing, 
Only  once  more  to  see  the  moon 
Through  leaf -fringed  abbey-arches  of  the  elms 

Curve  her  mild  sickle  in  the  West 
Sweet  with  the  breath  of  hay-cocks,  were  a  boon 
Worth  any  promise  of  soothsayer  realms 
Or  casual  hope  of  being  elsewhere  blest ; 

To  take  December  by  the  beard 
And  crush  the  creaking  snow  with  springy  foot, 
While   overhead    the  North's   dumb    streamers 
shoot, 


AGASSIZ  117 

Till  Winter  fawn  upon  the  cheek  endeared, 
Then  the  long  evening-ends 
Lingered  by  cosy  chimney-nooks, 
"With  high  companionship  of  books 
Or  slippered  talk  of  friends 
And  sweet  habitual  looks, 
Is  better  than  to  stop  the  ears  with  dust : 
Too  soon  the  spectre  conies  to  say,  "  Thou  must !  " 

2. 

When   toil-crooked   hands   are   crost   upon  the 
breast, 

They  comfort  us  with  sense  of  rest ; 
They  must  be  glad  to  lie  forever  still ; 

Their  work  is  ended  with  their  day ; 
Another  fills  their  room  ;  't  is  the  World's  ancient 
way, 

Whether  for  good  or  ill ; 
But  the  deft  spinners  of  the  brain, 
Who  love  each  added  day  and  find  it  gain, 

Them  overtakes  the  doom 
To  snap  the  half-grown  flower  upon  the  loom 
(Trophy  that  was  to  be  of  life-long  pain), 
The  thread  no  other  skill  can  ever  knit  again. 

1T  was  so  with  him,  for  he  was  glad  to  live, 

'T  was  doubly  so,  for  he  left  work  begun ; 
Could  not  this  eagerness  of  Fate  forgive 

Till  all  the  allotted  flax  were  spun  ? 
It  matters  not ;  for,  go  at  night  or  noon, 
A  friend,  whene'er  he  dies,  has  died  too  soon, 
And,  once  we  hear  the  hopeless  He  is  dead, 
So  far  as  flesh  hath  knowledge,  all  is  said. 


118  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

VI. 

1. 

I  seem  to  see  the  black  procession  go : 

That  crawling  prose  of  death  too  well  I  know. 

The  vulgar  paraphrase  of  glorious  woe  ; 

I  see  it  wind  through  that  unsightly  grove, 

Once  beautiful,  but  long  defaced 

With  granite  permanence  of  cockney  taste 

And  all  those  grim  disfigurements  we  love  : 

There,  then,  we  leave  him  :     Him  ?  such  costly 

waste 
Nature  rebels  at :  and  it  is  not  true 

Of  those  most  precious  parts  of  him  we  knew : 
Could  we  be  conscious  but  as  dreamers  be, 
*T  were  sweet  to  leave  this  shifting  life  of  tents 
Sunk  in  the  changeless  calm  of  Deity ; 
Nay,  to  be  mingled  with  the  elements, 
The  fellow-servant  of  creative  powers, 
Partaker  in  the  solemn  year's  events, 
To  share  the  work  of  busy-fingered  hours, 
To  be  night's  silent  almoner  of  dew, 
To  rise  again  in  plants  and  breathe  and  grow, 
To  stream  as  tides  the  ocean  caverns  through, 
Or  with  the  rapture  of  great  winds  to  blow 
About  earth's  shaken  coignes,  were  not  a  fate 
To  leave  us  all-disconsolate  ; 

Even  endless  slumber  in  the  sweetening  sod 

Of  charitable  earth 
That  takes  out  all  our  mortal  stains, 


A  GA  SS1Z  119 

And  makes  us  cleanlier  neighbors  of  the  clod, 

Methinks  were  better  worth 

Than  the  poor  fruit  of  most  men's  wakeful  pains, 
The  heart's  insatiable  ache : 
But  such  was  not  his  faith, 
Nor  mine  :  it  may  be  he  had  trod 
Outside  the  plain  old  path  of  God  tJius  spake^ 
But  God  to  him  was  very  God, 
And  not  a  visionary  wraith 
Skulking  in  murky  corners  of  the  mind, 

And  he  was  sure  to  be 
Somehow,  somewhere,  imperishable  as  He, 
Not  with  His  essence  mystically  combined, 
As  some  high  spirits  long,  but  whole  and  free, 

A  perfected  and  conscious  Agassiz. 
And  such  I  figure  him  :  the  wise  of  old 
Welcome  and  own  him  of  their  peaceful  fold, 
Not  truly  with  the  guild  enrolled 
Of  him  who  seeking  inward  guessed 
Diviner  riddles  than  the  rest, 
And  groping  in  the  darks  of  thought 
Touched  the  Great  Hand  and  knew  it  not ; 
Rather  he  shares  the  daily  light, 
From  reason's  charier  fountains  won, 
Of  his  great  chief,  the  slow-paced  Stagyrite, 
And  Cuvier  clasps  once  more  his  long-lost  son. 

2. 

The  shape  erect  is  prone  :  forever  stilled 
The  winning  tongue ;  the  forehead's  high-piled  heap, 
A  cairn  which  every  science  helped  to  build, 
Unvalued  will  its  golden  secrets  keep  : 


120  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

He  knows  at  last  if  Life  or  Death  be  best : 
Wherever  he  be  flown,  whatever  vest 
The  being  hath  put  on  which  lately  here 
So  many-friended  was,  so  full  of  cheer 
To  make  men  feel  the  Seeker's  noble  zest, 
We  have  not  lost  him  all ;  he  is  not  gone 
To  the  dumb  herd  of  them  that  wholly  die  ; 
The  beauty  of  his  better  self  lives  on 
In  minds  he  touched  with  fire,  in  many  an  eye 
He  trained  to  Truth's  exact  severity  ; 
He  was  a  Teacher :  why  be  grieved  for  him 
Whose  living  word  still  stimulates  the  air  ? 
In  endless  file  shall  loving  scholars  come 
The  glow  of  his  transmitted  touch  to  share, 
And  trace  his  features  with  an  eye  less  dim 
Than  ours  "whose  sense  familiar  wont  makes  numb. 
FLORENCE,  ITALY,  February,  1874. 


TO  HOLMES 

ON   HIS   SEVENTY-FIFTH   BIRTHDAY 

DEAR  Wendell,  why  need  count  the  years 
Since  first  your  genius  made  me  thrill, 

If  what  moved  then  to  smiles  or  tears, 
Or  both  contending,  move  me  still? 

What  has  the  Calendar  to  do 

With  poets  ?     What  Time's  fruitless  tooth 
With  gay  immortals  such  as  you 

Whose  years  but  emphasize  your  youth? 


TO  HOLMES  121 

One  air  gave  both  their  lease  of  breath  ; 

The  same  paths  lured  our  boyish  feet ; 
One  earth  will  hold  us  safe  in  death 

With  dust  of  saints  and  scholars  sweet. 

Our  legends  from  one  source  were  drawn, 
I  scarce  distinguish  yours  from  mine, 

And  don't  we  make  the  Gentiles  yawn 
With  "  You  remembers  ?  "  o'er  our  wine  ! 

If  I,  with  too  senescent  air, 

Invade  your  elder  memory's  pale, 
You  snub  me  with  a  pitying  "  Where 

Were  you  in  the  September  Gale  ?  " 

Both  stared  entranced  at  Lafayette, 
Saw  Jackson  dubbed  with  LL.  D. 

What  Cambridge  saw  not  strikes  us  yet 
As  scarcely  worth  one's  while  to  see. 

Ten  years  my  senior,  when  my  name 
In  Harvard's  entrance-book  was  writ, 

Her  halls  still  echoed  with  the  fame 
Of  you,  her  poet  and  her  wit. 

'T  is  fifty  years  from  then  to  now  : 
But  your  Last  Leaf  renews  its  green, 

Though,  for  the  laurels  on  your  brow 
(So  thick  they  crowd),  't  is  hardly  seen. 

The  oriole's  fledglings  fifty  times 
Have  flown  from  our  familiar  elms ; 


122  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

As  many  poets  with  their  rhymes 
Oblivion's  darkling  dust  o'erwhelms. 

The  birds  are  hushed,  the  poets  gone 
Where  no  harsh  critic's  lash  can  reach, 

And  still  your  winged  brood  sing  on 
To  all  who  love  our  English  speech. 

Nay,  let  the  foolish  records  be 

That  make  believe  you  're  seventy-five : 
You  're  tho  old  Wendell  still  to  me,  — 

And  that 's  the  youngest  man  alive. 

The  gray-blue  eyes,  I  see  them  still, 

The  gallant  front  with  brown  o'erhung, 

The  shape  alert,  the  wit  at  will, 

The  phrase  that  stuck,  but  never  stung. 

You  keep  your  youth  as  yon  Scotch  firs, 
Whose  gaunt  line  my  horizon  hems, 

Though  twilight  all  the  lowland  blurs, 
Hold  sunset  in  their  ruddy  stems. 

You  with  the  elders  ?     Yes,  't  is  true, 
But  in  no  sadly  literal  sense, 

With  elders  and  coevals  too, 

Whose  verb  admits  no  preterite  tense. 

Master  alike  in  speech  and  song 
Of  fame's  great  antiseptic  —  Style, 

You  with  the  classic  few  belong 

Who  tempered  wisdom  with  a  smile. 


DOBSOWS  "OLD  WORLD  IDYLLS"     123 

Outlive  us  all !     Who  else  like  you 
Could  sift  the  seedcorn  from  our  chaff, 

And  make  us  with  the  pen  we  knew 
Deathless  at  least  in  epitaph  ? 

WOLLASTON,  August  29,  1884. 


IN  A  COPY  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

THESE  pearls  of  thought  in   Persian  gulfs  were 

bred, 

Each  softly  lucent  as  a  rounded  moon ; 
The  diver  Omar  plucked  them  from  their  bed, 
Fitzgerald  strung  them  on  an  English  thread. 

Fit  rosary  for  a  queen,  in  shape  and  hue, 
When  Contemplation  tells  her  pensive  beads 
Of  mortal  thoughts,  forever  old  and  new. 
Fit  for  a  queen  ?     Why,  surely  then  for  you ! 

The  moral  ?     Where  Doubt's  eddies  toss  and  twirl 
Faith's  slender  shallop  till  her  footing  reel, 
Plunge :  if  you  find  not  peace  beneath  the  whirl, 
Groping,  yQU  may  like  Omar  grasp  a  pearl. 


ON    RECEIVING   A    COPY  OF    MR.    AUSTIN 
DOBSON'S   "OLD   WORLD  IDYLLS" 

I. 

AT  length  arrived,  your  book  I  take 
To  read  in  for  the  author's  sake ; 
Too  gray  for  new  sensations  grown, 


124  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Can  charm  to  Art  or  Nature  known 
This  torpor  from  my  senses  shake  ? 

Hush  !  my  parched  ears  what  runnels  slake  ? 
Is  a  thrush  gurgling  from  the  brake  ? 
Has  .Spring,  on  all  the  breezes  blown, 
At  length  arrived  ? 

Long  may  you  live  such  songs  to  make, 
And  I  to  listen  while  you  wake, 
With  skill  of  late  disused,  each  tone 
Of  the  Lesboum  barbiton, 
At  mastery,  through  long  finger-ache, 
At  length  arrived. 

II. 

As  I  read  on,  what  changes  steal 

O'er  me  and  through,  from  head  to  heel  ? 

A  rapier  thrusts  coat-skirt  aside, 

My  rough  Tweeds  bloom  to  silken  pride,  — 

Who  was  it  laughed  ?     Your  hand,  Dick  Steele ! 

Down  vistas  long  of  dipt  charmille 
Watteau  as  Pierrot  leads  the  reel ; 
Tabor  and  pipe  the  dancers  guide 
As  I  read  on. 

While  in  and  out  the  verses  wheel 
The  wind-caught  robes  trim  feet  reveal, 
Lithe  ankles  that  to  music  glide, 
But  chastely  and  by  chance  descried  ; 
Art  ?     Nature  ?     Which  do  I  most  feel 
As  I  read  on  ? 


TO  C.  F.   BRADFORD  125 

TO   C.   F.   BRADFORD 

ON   THE   GIFT    OF   A   MEERSCHAUM   PIPE 

THE  pipe  came  safe,  and  welcome  too, 

As  anything  must  be  from  you ; 

A  meerschaum  pure,  't  would  float  as  light 

As  she  the  girls  call  Amphitrite. 

Mixture  divine  of  foam  and  clay, 

From  both  it  stole  the  best  away : 

Its  foam  is  such  as  crowns  the  glow 

Of  beakers  brimmed  by  Veuve  Clicquot ; 

Its  clay  is  but  congested  lymph 

Jove  chose  to  make  some  choicer  nymph ; 

And  here  combined,  —  why,  this  must  be 

The  birth  of  some  enchanted  sea, 

Shaped  to  immortal  form,  the  type 

And  very  Venus  of  a  pipe. 

When  high  I  heap  it  with  the  weed 
From  Lethe  wharf,  whose  potent  seed 
Nicotia,  big  from  Bacchus,  bore 
And  cast  upon  Virginia's  shore, 
I  '11  think,  —  So  fill  the  fairer  bowl 
And  wise  alembic  of  thy  soul, 
With  herbs  far-sought  that  shall  distil, 
Not  fumes  to  slacken  thought  and  will, 
But  bracing  essences  that  nerve 
To  wait,  to  dare,  to  strive,  to  serve. 

When  curls  the  smoke  in  eddies  soft, 
And  hangs  a  shifting  dream  aloft, 


126  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

That  gives  and  takes,  though,  chance-designed, 
The  impress  of  the  dreamer's  mind, 
I  '11  think,  —  So  let  the  vapors  bred 
By  Passion,  in  the  heart  or  head, 
Pass  off  and  upward  into  space, 
Waving  farewells  of  tenderest  grace, 
[Remembered  in  some  happier  time, 
To  blend  their  beauty  with  my  rhyme. 

While  slowly  o'er  its  candid  bowl 
The  color   deepens  (as  the  soul 
That  burns  in  mortals  leaves  its  trace 
Of  bale  or  beauty  on  the  face), 
I  '11  think,  — -  So  let  the  essence  rare 
Of  years  consuming  make  me  fair ; 
So,  'gainst  the  ills  of  life  profuse, 
Steep  me  in  some  narcotic  juice ; 
And  if  my  soul  must  part  with  all 
That  whiteness  which  we  greenness  call, 
Smooth  back,  O  Fortune,  half  thy  frown, 
And  make  me  beautifully  brown  I 

Dream-forger,  I  refill  thy  cup 
With  reverie's  wasteful  pittance  up, 
And  while  the  fire  burns  slow  away, 
Hiding  itself  in  ashes  gray, 
I  '11  think,  —  As  inwa,rd  Youth  retreats, 
Compelled  to  spare  his  wasting  heats. 
When  Life's  Ash- Wednesday  comes  about, 
And  my  head  's  gray  with  fires  burnt  out, 
While  stays  one  spark  to  light  the  eye, 
With  the  last  flash  of  memory, 


BANKSIDE  127 


*T  will  leap  to  welcome  C.  F.  B., 
Who  sent  my  favorite  pipe  to  me* 


BANKSIDE 

(HOME  OF  EDMUND  QUINCY) 

DEDHAM,  MAY  21,  1877 

I. 

I  CHRISTENED  you  in  happier  days,  before 
These  gray  forebodings  on  my  brow  were  seen ; 
You  are  still  lovely  in  your  new-leaved  green ; 
The  brimming  river  soothes  his  grassy  shore  ; 
The  bridge  is  there ;  the  rock  with  lichens  hoar  ; 
And  the  same  shadows  on  the  water  lean, 
Outlasting  us.     How  many  graves  between 
That  day  and  this  !     How  many  shadows  more 
Darken  my  heart,  their  substance  from  these  eyes 
Hidden  forever  I     So  our  world  is  made 
Of  life  and  death  commingled ;  and  the  sighs 
Outweigh  the  smiles,  in  equal  balance  laid : 
What  compensation  ?    None,  save  that  the  All-wise 
So  schools  us  to  love  things  that  cannot  fade. 

II. 

Thank  God,  he  saw  you  last  in  pomp  of  May, 

Ere  any  leaf  had  felt  the  year's  regret ; 

Your  latest  image  in  his  memory  set 

Was  fair  as  when  your  landscape's  peaceful  sway 

Charmed  dearer  eyes  with  his  to  make  delay 

On  Hope's  long  prospect,  —  as  if  They  forget 


128  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

The  happy,  They,  the  unspeakable  Three,  whose 

debt, 

Like  the  hawk's  shadow,  blots  our  brightest  day : 
Better  it  is  that  ye  should  look  so  fair, 
Slopes  that  he  loved,  and  ever-murmuring  pines 
That  make  a  music  out  of  silent  air, 
And   bloom -heaped    orchard-trees   in   prosperous 

lines  ; 

In  you  the  heart  some  sweeter  hints  divines, 
And  wiser,  than  in  winter's  dull  despair. 

III. 

Old  Friend,  farewell !     Your  kindly  door  again 
I  enter,  but  the  master's  hand  in  mine 
No  more  clasps  welcome,  and  the  temperate  wine, 
That   cheered   our   long   nights,    other   lips   must 

stain : 

All  is  unchanged,  but  I  expect  in  vain 
The  face  alert,  the  manners  free  and  fine, 
The  seventy  years  borne  lightly  as  the  pine 
Wears  its  first  down  of  snow  in  green  disdain : 
Much  did  he,  and  much  well ;  yet  most  of  all 
I  prized  his  skill  in  leisure  and  the  ease 
Of  a  life  flowing  full  without  a  plan ; 
For  most  are  idly  busy ;  him  I  call 
Thrice  fortunate  who  knew  himself  to  please, 
Learned  in  those  arts  that  make  a  gentleman. 

IV. 

Nor  deem  he  lived  unto  himself  alone ; 
His  was  the  public  spirit  of  his  sire, 


And  in  those  eyes,  soft  with  domestic  fire, 


JOSEPH  WINLOCK  129 

A  quenchless  light  of  fiercer  temper  shone 
What  time  about  the  world  our  shame  was  blown 
On  every  wind ;  his  soul  would  not  conspire 
With  selfish  men  to  soothe  the  mob's  desire, 
Veiling  with  garlands  Moloch's  bloody  stone ; 
The  high-bred  instincts  of  a  better  day 
Ruled  in  his  blood,  when  to  be  citizen 
Rang  Roman  yet,  and  a  Free  People's  sway 
Was  not  the  exchequer  of  impoverished  men, 
Nor  statesmanship  with  loaded  votes  to  play, 
Nor  public  office  a  tramps'  boosing-ken. 


JOSEPH  WINLOCK 

DIED    JUNE    11,    1875 

SHY  soul  and  stalwart,  man  of  patient  will 
Through  years  one  hair's-breadth  on  our  Dark  to 

gain, 

Who,  from  the  stars  he  studied  not  in  vain, 
Had  learned  their  secret  to  be  strong  and  still, 
Careless  of  fames  that  earth's  tin  trumpets  fill ; 
Born  under  Leo,  broad  of  build  and  brain, 
While  others  slept,  he  watched  in  that  hushed  fane 
Of  Science,  only  witness  of  his  skill : 
Sudden  as  falls  a  shooting-star  he  fell, 
But  inextinguishable  his  luminous  trace 
In  mind  and  heart  of  all  that  knew  him  well. 
Happy  man's  doom !    To  him  the  Fates  were  known 
Of  orbs  dim  hovering  on  the  skirts  of  space, 
Unprescient,  through  God's  mercy,  of  his  own  ! 


130  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

SONNET 

Tp   FANNY   ALEXANDER 

UNCONSCIOUS  as  the  sunshine,  simply  sweet 
And  generous  as  that,  thou  dost  not  close 
Thyself  in  art,  as  life  were  but  a  rose 
To  rumple  bee-like  with  luxurious  feet ; 
Thy  higher  mind  therein  finds  sure  retreat, 
But  not  from  care  of  common  hopes  and  woes ; 
Thee  the  dark  chamber,  thee  the  unfriended,  knows, 
Although  no  babbling  crowds  thy  praise  repeat : 
Consummate  artist,  who  life's  landscape  bleak 
Hast  brimmed  with  sun  to  many  a  clouded  eye, 
Touched  to  a  brighter  hue  the  beggar's  cheek, 
Hung  over  orphaned  lives  a  gracious  sky, 
And  traced  for  eyes,  that  else  would  vainly  seek, 
Fair  pictures  of  an  angel  drawing  nigh  ! 
FLORENCE,  1873. 

JEFFRIES  WYMAN 

DIED    SEPTEMBER  4,  1874 

THE  wisest  man  could  ask  no  more  of  Fate 

Than  to  be  simple,  modest,  manly,  true, 

Safe  from  the  Many,  honored  by  the  Few ; 

To  count  as  naught  in  World,  or  Church,  or  State, 

But  inwardly  in  secret  to  be  great ; 

To  feel  mysterious  Nature  ever  new ; 

To  touch,  if  not  to  grasp,  her  endless  clue, 

And  learn  by  each  discovery  how  to  wait. 


TO  A  FRIEND  131 

He  widened  knowledge  and  escaped  the  praise  ; 
He  wisely  taught,  because  more  wise  to  learn  ; 
He  toiled  for  Science,  not  to  draw  men's  gaze, 
But  for  her  lore  of  self-denial  stern. 
That  such  a  man  could  spring  from  our  decays 
Fans  the  soul's  nobler  faith  until  it  burn. 


TO  A  FRIEND 

WHO     GAVE     ME    A     GROUP    OF      WEEDS    AND    GRASSES, 
AFTER   A   DRAWING   OF   DURER 

TRUE  as  the  sun's  own  work,  but  more  refined, 
It  tells  of  love  behind  the  artist's  eye, 
Of  sweet  companionships  with  earth  and  sky, 
And  summers  stored,  the  sunshine  of  the  mind. 
What  peace !     Sure,  ere  you  breathe,  the  fickle 

wind 
Will  break  its  truce  and  bend  that  grass-plume 

high, 

Scarcely  yet  quiet  from  the  gilded  fly 
That  flits  a  more  luxurious  perch  to  find. 
Thanks  for  a  pleasure  that  can  never  pall, 
A  serene  moment,  deftly  caught  and  kept 
To  make  immortal  summer  on  my  wall. 
Had  he  who  drew  such  gladness  ever  wept? 
Ask  rather  could  he  else  have  seen  at  all, 
Or  grown  in  Nature's  mysteries  an  adept  ? 


132  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

WITH  AN  ARMCHAIR 
1. 

ABOUT  the  oak  that  framed  this  chair,  of  old 
The  seasons  danced  their  round ;  delighted  wings 
Brought  music  to  its  boughs  ;  shy  woodland  things 
Shared  its  broad  roof,  'neath  whose  green  glooms 

grown  bold, 

Lovers,  more  shy  than  they,  their  secret  told ; 
The  resurrection  of  a  thousand  springs 
Swelled  in  its  veins,  and  dim  imaginings 
Teased  them,  perchance,  of  life  more  manifold. 
Such  shall  it  know  when  its  proud  arms  enclose 
My  Lady  Goshawk,  musing  here  at  rest, 
Careless  of  him  who  into  exile  goes, 
Yet,  while  his  gift  by  those  fair  limbs  is  prest, 
Through  some  fine  sympathy  of  nature  knows 
That,  seas  between  us,  she  is  still  his  guest. 


2. 

Yet  sometimes,  let  me  dream,  the  conscious  wood 
A  momentary  vision  may  renew 
Of  him  who  counts  it  treasure  that  he  knew, 
Though  but  in  passing,  such  a  priceless  good, 
And,  like  an  elder  brother,  felt  his  mood 
Uplifted  by  the  spell  that  kept  her  true, 
Amid  her  lightsome  compeers,  to  the  few 
That  wear  the  crown  of  serious  womanhood : 
Were  he  so  happy,  think  of  him  as  one 


BON   VOYAGE  133 

Who  in  the  Louvre  or  Pitti  feels  his  soul 
Kapt  by  some  dead  face  which,  till  then  unseen, 
Moves  like  a  memory,  and,  till  life  outrun, . 
Is  vexed  with  vague  misgiving,  past  control, 
Of  nameless  loss  and  thwarted  might-have-been. 


E.  G.  DE  R. 

WHY  should  I  seek  her  spell  to  decompose 
Or  to  its  source  each  rill  of  influence  trace 
That  feeds  the  brimming  river  of  her  grace  ? 
The  petals  numbered  but  degrade  to  prose 
Summer's  triumphant  poem  of  the  rose  : 
Enough  for  me  to  watch  the  wavering  chase, 
Like  wind  o'er  grass,  of  moods  across  her  face, 
Fairest  in  motion,  fairer  in  repose. 
Steeped  in  her  sunshine,  let  me,  while  I  may, 
Partake  the  bounty  :  ample  't  is  for  me 
That  her  mirth  cheats  my  temples  of  their  gray, 
Her  charm  makes  years  long  spent  seem  yet  to  be. 
Wit,  goodness,  grace,  swift  flash    from  grave  to 


All  these  are  good,  but  better  far  is  she. 


BON  VOYAGE 

SHIP,  blest  to  bear  such  freight  across  the  blue, 
May  stormless  stars  control  thy  horoscope ; 
In  keel  and  hull,  in  every  spar  and  rope, 
Be  night  and  day  to  thy  dear  office  true  I 


134  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Ocean,  men's  path  and  their  divider  too, 
No  fairer  shrine  of  memory  and  hope 
To  the  underworld  adown  thy  westering  slope 
E'er  vanished,  or  whom  such  regrets  pursue : 
Smooth  all  thy  surges  as  when  Jove  to  Crete 
Swam  with  less  costly  burthen,  and  prepare 
A  pathway  meet  for  her  home-coming  soon 
With  golden  undulations  such  as  greet 
The  priutless  summer-sandals  of  the  moon 
And  tempt  the  Nautilus  his  cruise  to  dare ! 


TO  WHITTIER 

ON   HIS   SEVENTY-FIFTH    BIRTHDAY 

NEW  ENGLAND'S  poet,  rich  in  love  as  years, 
Her  hills  and  valleys  praise  thee,  her  swift  brooks 
Dance  in  thy  verse  ;  to  her  grave  sylvan  nooks 
Thy  steps  allure  us,  which  the  wood-thrush  hears 
As  maids  their 'lovers',  and  no  treason  fears  ; 
Through  thee  her  Merrimacs  and  Agiochooks 
And  many  a  name  uncouth  win  gracious  looks, 
Sweetly  familiar  to  both  Englands'  ears  : 
Peaceful  by  birthright  as  a  virgin  lake, 
The  lily's  anchorage,  which  no  eyes  behold 
Save  those  of  stars,  yet  for  thy  brother's  sake 
That  lay  in  bonds,  thou  blewst  a  blast  as  bold 
As  that  wherewith  the  heart  of  Roland  brake, 
Far  heard  across  the  New  World  and  the  Old. 


TO  MISS  D.  T.  135 


ON  AN  AUTUMN  SKETCH  OF  H.  G.  WILD 

THANKS  to  the  artist,  ever  on  my  wall 
The  sunset  stays :  that  hill  in  glory  rolled, 
Those  trees  and  clouds  in  crimson  and  in  gold, 
Burn  on,  nor  cool  when  evening's  shadows  fall. 
Not  round  these   splendors    Midnight    wraps  her 

pall; 

These  leaves  the  flush  of  Autumn's  vintage  hold 
In  Winter's  spite,  nor  can  the  Northwind  bold 
Deface  my  chapel's  western  window  small : 
On  one,  ah  me  !  October  struck  his  frost, 
But  not  repaid  him  with  those  Tyrian  hues ; 
His  naked  boughs  but  tell  him  what  is  lost, 
And  parting  comforts  of  the  sun  refuse  : 
His  heaven  is  bare,  —  ah,  were  its  hollow  crost 
Even  with  a  cloud  whose  light  were  yet  to  lose  I 
April,  1854. 


TO   MISS   D.  T. 

ON    HER    GIVING    ME   A    DRAWING    OF    LITTLE    STREET 
ARABS. 

As,  cleansed  of  Tiber's  and  Oblivion's  slime, 

Glow  Farnesina's  vaults  with  shapes  again 

That  dreamed  some  exiled  artist  from  his  pain 

Back  to  his  Athens  and  the  Muse's  clime, 

So  these  world-orphaned  waifs  of  Want  and  Crime, 

Purged  by  Art's  absolution  from  the  stain 

Of  the  polluting  city-flood,  regain 


136  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Ideal  grace  secure  from  taint  of  time. 
An  Attic  frieze  you  give,  a  pictured  song ; 
For  as  with  words  the  poet  paints,  for  you 
The  happy  pencil  at  its  labor  sings, 
Stealing  his  privilege,  nor  does  him  wrong, 
Beneath  the  false  discovering  the  true, 
And  Beauty's  best  in  unregarded  things. 


WITH  A  COPY    OF    AUCASSIN    AND    NICO- 
LETE 

LEAVES  fit  to  have  been  poor  Juliet's  cradle-rhyme, 
With  gladness  of  a  heart  long  quenched  in  mould 
They  vibrate  still,  a  nest  not  yet  grown  cold 
From  its  fledged  burthen.    The  numb  hand  of  Time 
Vainly  his  glass  turns ;  here  is  endless  prime  ; 
Here  lips  their  roses  keep  and  locks  their  gold ; 
Here  Love  in  pristine  innocency  bold 
Speaks  what  our  grosser  conscience  makes  a  crime. 
Because  it  tells  the  dream  that  all  have  known 
Once  in  their  lives,  and  to  life's  end  the  few ; 
Because  its  seeds  o'er  Memory's  desert  blown 
Spring  up  in  heartsease  such  as  Eden  knew ; 
Because  it  hath  a  beauty  all  its  own, 
Dear  Friend,  I  plucked  this  herb  of  grace  for  you. 


ON  PLANTING  A   TREE  AT  INVERARA      137 


ON  PLANTING  A  TREE  AT  INVERARA 

WHO  does  his  duty  is  a  question 
Too  complex  to  be  solved  by  me, 
But  he,  I  venture  the  suggestion, 
Does  part  of  his  that  plants  a  tree. 

For  after  he  is  dead  and  buried, 
And  epitaphed,  and  well  forgot, 
Nay,  even  his  shade  by  Charon  ferried 
To  —  let  us  not  inquire  to  what, 

His  deed,  its  author  long  outliving, 
By  Nature's  mother-care  increased, 
Shall  stand,  his  verdant  almoner,  giving 
A  kindly  dole  to  man  and  beast. 

The  wayfarer,  at  noon  reposing, 
Shall  bless  its  shadow  on  the  grass, 
Or  sheep  beneath  it  huddle,  dozing 
Until  the  thundergust  o'erpass. 

The  owl,  belated  in  his  plundering, 
Shall  here  await  the  friendly  night, 
Blinking  whene'er  he  wakes,  and  wondering 
What  fool  it  was  invented  light. 

Hither  the  busy  birds  shall  flutter, 
With  the  light  timber  for  their  nests, 
And,  pausing  from  their  labor,  utter 
The  morning  sunshine  in  their  breasts. 


138  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

What  though  his  memory  shall  have  vanished, 
Since  the  good  deed  he  did  survives  ? 
It  is  not  wholly  to  be  banished 
Thus  to  be  part  of  many  lives. 

Grow,  then,  my  foster-child,  and  strengthen, 
Bough  over  bough,  a  murmurous  pile, 
And,  as  your  stately  stem  shall  lengthen, 
So  may  the  statelier  of  Argyll  I 

1880. 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS 

"De  prodome, 

Des  qu'il  s'atorne  a  grant  bonte 
Ja  n'iert  tot  dit  ne  tot  conte, 
Que  leingrie  ne  puet  pas  retraire 
Tant  d'enor  com  prodom  set  faire." 

CRESTIEN  DE  TEOIES, 
Li  Romans  dou  Chevalier  au  Lyon,  784-788. 

1874. 

CURTIS,  whose  Wit,  with  Fancy  arm  in  arm, 
Masks  half  its  muscle  in  its  skill  to  charm, 
And  who  so  gently  can  the  Wrong  expose 
As  sometimes  to  make  converts,  never  foes, 
Or  only  such  as  good  men  must  expect, 
Knaves  sore  with  conscience  of  their  own  defect, 
I  come  with  mild  remonstrance.     Ere  I  start, 
A  kindlier  errand  interrupts  my  heart, 
And  I  must  utter,  though  it  vex  your  ears, 
The  love,  the  honor,  felt  so  many  years. 


TO  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS         139 

Curtis,  skilled  equally  with  voice  and  pen 

To  stir  the  hearts  or  mould  the  minds  of  men,  — 

That  voice  whose  music,  for  I  Ve  heard  you  sing 

Sweet  as  Casella,  can  with  passion  ring, 

That  pen  whose  rapid  ease  ne'er  trips  with  haste, 

Nor  scrapes  nor  sputters,  pointed  with  good  taste, 

First  Steele's,  then  Goldsmith's,  next  it  came  to  yoiL> 

Whom  Thackeray  rated  best  of  all  our  crew,  — 

Had  letters  kept  you,  every  wreath  were  yours ; 

Had  the  World  tempted,  all  its  chariest  doors 

Had  swung  on  flattered  hinges  to  admit 

Such  high-bred  manners,  such  good-natured  wit ; 

At  courts,  in  senates,  who  so  fit  to  serve  ? 

And  both  invited,  but  you  would  not  swerve, 

All  meaner  prizes  waiving  that  you  might 

In  civic  duty  spend  your  heat  and  light, 

Unpaid,  untrammelled,  with  a  sweet  disdain 

Refusing  posts  men  grovel  to  attain. 

Good  Man  all  own  you  ;  what  is  left  me,  then, 

To  heighten  praise  with  but  Good  Citizen  ? 

But  why  this  praise  to  make  you  blush  and  stare. 

And  give  a  backache  to  your  Easy-Chair  ? 

Old  Crestien  rightly  says  no  language  can 

Express  the  worth  of  a  true  Gentleman, 

And  I  agree ;  but  other  thoughts  deride 

My  first  intent,  and  lure  my  pen  aside. 

Thinking  of  you,  I  see  my  firelight  glow 

On  other  faces,  loved  from  long  ago, 

Dear  to  us  both,  and  all  these  loves  combine 

With  this  I  send  and  crowd  in  every  line  ; 

Fortune  with  me  was  in  such  generous  mood 


140  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

That   all   my   friends   were   yours,  and   all   were 

good; 

Three  generations  come  when  one  I  call, 
And  the  fair  grandame,  youngest  of  them  all, 
In  her  own  Florida  who  found  and  sips 
The  fount  that  fled  from  Ponce's  longing  lips. 
How  bright  they  rise  and  wreathe  my  hearthstone 

round, 

Divine  my  thoughts,  reply  without  a  sound, 
And  with  them  many  a  shape  that  memory  sees, 
As  dear  as  they,  but  crowned  with  aureoles  these ! 
What  wonder  if,  with  protest  in  my  thought, 
Arrived,  I  find  *t  was  onty  love  I  brought  ? 
I  came  with  protest ;  Memory  barred  the  road 
Till  I  repaid  you  half  the  debt  I  owed. 

No,  't  was  not  to  bring  laurels  that  I  came, 
Nor  would  you  wish  it,  daily  seeing  fame, 
(Or  our  cheap  substitute,  unknown  of  yore,) 
Dumped  like  a  load  of  coal  at  every  door, 
Mime  and  heta3ra  getting  equal  weight 
With  him  whose  toils  heroic  slaved  the  State. 
But  praise  can  harm  not  who  so  calmly  met 
Slander's  worst  word,  nor  treasured  up  the  debt, 
Knowing,  what  all  experience  serves  to  show, 
No  mud  can  soil  us  but  the  mud  we  throw. 
You  have  heard  harsher  voices  and  more  loud, 
As  all  must,  not  sworn  liegemen  of  the  crowd, 
And  far  aloof  your  silent  mind  could  keep 
As  when,  in  heavens  with  winter-midnight  deep, 
The  perfect  moon  hangs  thoughtful,  nor  can  know 
What  hounds  her  lucent  calm  drives  mad  below. 


TO   GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS        141 

But  to  my  business,  while  you  rub  your  eyes 

And  wonder  how  you  ever  thought  me  wise. 

Dear  friend  and  old,  they  say  you  shake  your  head 

And  wish  some  bitter  words  of  mine  unsaid  : 

I  wish  they  might  be,  —  there  we  are  agreed ; 

I  hate  to  speak,  still  more  what  makes  the  need ; 

But  I  must  utter  what  the  voice  within 

Dictates,  for  acquiescence  dumb  were  sin ; 

I  blurt  ungrateful  truths,  if  so  they  be, 

That  none  may  need  to  say  them  after  me. 

'T  were  my  felicity  could  I  attain 

The  temperate  zeal  that  balances  your  brain ; 

But  nature  still  o'erleaps  reflection's  plan, 

And  one  must  do  his  service  as  he  can. 

Think  you  it  were  not  pleasanter  to  speak 

Smooth  words  that  leave  unflushed  the  brow  and 

cheek  ? 

To  sit,  well-dined,  with  cynic  smile,  unseen 
In  private  box,  spectator  of  the  scene 
Where  men  the  comedy  of  life  rehearse, 
Idly  to  judge  which  better  and  which  worse 
Each  hireling  actor  spoiled  his  worthless  part? 
Were  it  not  sweeter  with  a  careless  heart, 
In  happy  commune  with  the  untainted  brooks, 
To  dream  all  day,  or,  walled  with  silent  books, 
To  hear  nor  heed  the  World's  unmeaning  noise, 
Safe  in  my  fortress  stored  with  lifelong  joys  ? 

I  love  too  well  the  pleasures  of  retreat 
Safe  from  the  crowd  and  cloistered  from  the  street  3 
The  fire  that  whispers  its  domestic  joy, 
Flickering  on  walls  that  knew  me  still  a  boy, 


142  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

And  knew  my  saintly  father ;  the  full  days, 

Not  careworn  from  the  world's   soul-squandering 

ways, 

Calm  days  that  loiter  with  snow-silent  tread, 
Nor  break  my  commune  with  the  undying  dead ; 
Truants  of  Time,  to-morrow  like  to-day, 
That  come  unbid,  and  claimless  glide  away 
By  shelves  that  sun  them  in  the  indulgent  Past, 
Where  Spanish  castles,  even,  were  built  to  last, 
Where  saint  and  sage  their  silent  vigil  keep, 
And  wrong  hath  ceased  or  sung  itself  to  sleep. 
Dear  were  my  walks,  too,  gathering  fragrant  store 
Of  Mother  Nature's  simple-minded  lore  : 
I  learned  all  weather-signs  of  day  or  night ; 
No  bird  but  I  could  name  him  by  his  flight, 
No  distant  tree  but  by  his  shape  was  known, 
Or,  near  at  hand,  by  leaf  or  bark  alone. 
This  learning  won  by  loving  looks  I  hived 
As  sweeter  lore  than  all  from  books  derived. 
I  know  the  charm  of  hillside,  field,  and  wood, 
Of  lake  and  stream,  and  the  sky's  downy  brood, 
Of  roads  sequestered  rimmed  with  sallow  sod, 
But  friends  with  hardhack,  aster,  golden  rod, 
Or  succory  keeping  summer  long  its  trust 
Of  heaven-blue  fleckless  from  the  eddying  dust : 
These  were  my  earliest  friends,  and  latest  too, 
Still  unestranged,  whatever  fate  may  do. 
For  years  I  had  these  treasures,  knew  their  worth, 
Estate  most  real  man  can  have  on  earth. 
I  sank  too  deep  in  this  soft-stuffed  repose 
That  hears  but  rumors  of  earth's  wrongs  and  woes ; 
Too  well  these  Capuas  could  my  muscles  waste, 


TO  GEORGE  WILLIAM   CURTIS         143 

Not  void  of  toils,  but  toils  of  choice  and  taste ; 

These  still  had  kept  me  could  I  but  have  quelled 

The  Puritan  drop  that  in  my  veins  rebelled. 

But  there  were  times  when  silent  were  my  books 

As  jailers  are,  and  gave  me  sullen  looks, 

When  verses  palled,  and  even  the  woodland  path, 

By  innocent  contrast,  fed  my  heart  with  wrath, 

And  I  must  twist  my  little  gift  of  words 

Into  a  scourge  of  rough  and  knotted  cords 

Unmusical,  that  whistle  as  they  swing 

To  leave  on  shameless  backs  their  purple  sting. 

How  slow  Time  comes !     Gone,  who  so  swift  as  he  ? 

Add  but  a  year,  't  is  half  a  century 

Since  the  slave's  stifled  moaning  broke  my  sleep, 

Heard  'gainst  my  will  in  that  seclusion  deep, 

Haply  heard  louder  for  the  silence  there, 

And  so  my  fancied  safeguard  made  my  snare. 

After  that  moan  had  sharpened  to  a  cry, 

And  a  cloud,  hand-broad  then,  heaped  all  our  sky 

With  its    stored   vengeance,    and     such   thunders 

stirred 

As  heaven's  and  earth's  remotest  chambers  heard, 
I  looked  to  see  an  ampler  atmosphere 
By  that  electric  passion-gust  blown  clear. 
I  looked  for  this  ;  consider  what  I  see  — 
But  I  forbear,  't  would  please  nor  you  nor  me 
To  check  the  items  in  the  bitter  list 
Of  all  I  counted  on  and  all  I  mist. 
Only  three  instances  I  choose  from  all, 
And  each  enough  to  stir  a  pigeon's  gall : 
Office  a  fund  for  ballot-brokers  made 


144  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

To  pay  the  drudges  of  their  gainful  trade ; 

Our  cities  taught  what  conquered  cities  feel 

By  aediles  chosen  that  they  might  safely  steal ; 

And  gold,  however  got,  a  title  fair 

To  such  respect  as  only  gold  can  bear. 

I  seem  to  see  this ;  how  shall  I  gainsay 

What  all  our  journals  tell  me  every  day  ? 

Poured   our   young   martyrs    their   high  -  hearted 

blood 

That  we  might  trample  to  congenial  mud 
The  soil  with  such  a  legacy  sublimed  ? 
Methinks  an  angry  scorn  is  here  well-timed  : 
Where  find  retreat  ?     How  keep  reproach  at  bay  ? 
Where'er  I  turn  some  scandal  fouls  the  way. 

Dear  friend,  if  any  man  I  wished  to  please, 
'T  were  surely  you  whose  humor's  honied  ease 
Flows  flecked  with  gold  of  thought,  whose  gener- 
ous mind 

Sees  Paradise  regained  by  all  mankind, 
Whose  brave  example  still  to  van  ward  shines, 
Checks  the  retreat,  and  spurs  our  lagging  lines. 
Was  I  too  bitter  ?     Who  his  phrase  can  choose 
That  sees  the  life-blood  of  his  dearest  ooze  ? 
I  loved  my  Country  so  as  only  they 
Who  love  a  mother  fit  to  die  for  may ; 
I  loved  her  old  renown,  her  stainless  fame,  — 
What  better  proof  than  that  I  loathed  her  shame  ? 
That  many  blamed  me  could  not  irk  me  long, 
But,  if  you  doubted,  must  I  not  be  wrong  ? 
'T  is  not  for  me  to  answer  :  this  I  know, 
That  man  or  race  so  prosperously  low 


TO   GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS          145 

Sunk  in  success  that  wrath  they  cannot  feel, 
Shall  taste  the  spurn  of  parting  Fortune's  heel ; 
For  never  land  long  lease  of  empire  won 
Whose  sons  sate  silent  when  base  deeds  were  done. 

POSTSCRIPT,  1887. 

Curtis,  so  wrote  I  thirteen  years  ago, 

Tost  it  unfinished  by,  and  left  it  so  ; 

Found  lately,  I  have  pieced  it  out,  or  tried, 

Since  time  for  callid  juncture  was  denied. 

Some  of  the  verses  pleased  me,  it  is  true, 

And  still  were  pertinent,  —  those  honoring  you. 

These  now  I  offer :  take  them,  if  you  will, 

Like  the  old  hand-grasp,  when  at  Shady  Hill 

We  met,  or  Staten  Island,  in  the  days 

When  life  was  its  own  spur,  nor  needed  praise. 

If  once  you  thought  me  rash,  no  longer  fear ; 

Past  my  next  milestone  waits  my  seventieth  year. 

I  mount  no  longer  when  the  trumpets  call ; 

My  battle-harness  idles  on  the  wall, 

The  spider's  castle,  camping-ground  of  dust, 

Not  without  dints,  and  all  in  front,  1  trust. 

Shivering  sometimes  it  calls  me  as  it  hears 

Afar  the  charge's  tramp  and  clash  of  spears ; 

But  't  is  such  murmur  only  as  might  be 

The  sea-shell's  lost  tradition  of  the  sea, 

That   makes  me  muse   and  wonder  Where  ?  and 

When? 

While  from  my  cliff  I  watch  the  waves  of  men 
That  climb  to  break  midway  their  seeming  gain, 
And  think  it  triumph  if  they  shake  their  chain. 
Little  I  ask  of  Fate ;  will  she  refuse 


146  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Some  days  of  reconcilement  with  the  Muse  ? 
I  take  my  reed  again  and  blow  it  free 
Of  dusty  silence,  murmuring,  "  Sing  to  me  !  " 
And,  as  its  stops  my  curious  touch  retries, 
The  stir  of  earlier  instincts  I  surprise,  — 
Instincts,  if  less  imperious,  yet  more  strong, 
And  happy  in  the  toil  that  ends  with  song. 

Home  am  I  come  :  not,  as  I  hoped  might  be, 

To  the  old  haunts,  too  full  of  ghosts  for  me, 

But  to  the  olden  dreams  that  time  endears, 

And  the  loved  books  that  younger  grow  with  years ; 

To  country  rambles,  timing  with  my  tread 

Some  happier  verse  that  carols  in  my  head, 

Yet  all  with  sense  of  something  vainly  inist, 

Of  something  lost,  but  when  I  never  wist. 

How  empty  seems  to  me  the  populous  street, 

One  figure  gone  I  daily  loved  to  meet,  — 

The  clear,  sweet  singer  with  the  crown  of  snow 

Not  whiter  than  the  thoughts  that  housed  below ! 

And,  ah,  what  absence  feel  I  at  my  side, 

Like  Dante  when  he  missed  his  laurelled  guide, 

What  sense  of  diminution  in  the  air 

Once  so  inspiring,  Emerson  not  there ! 

But  life  is  sweet,  though  all  that  makes  it  sweet 

Lessen  like  sound  of  friends'  departing  feet, 

And  Death  is  beautiful  as  feet  of  friend 

Coming  with  welcome  at  our  journey's  end  ; 

For  me  Fate  gave,  whate'er  she  else  denied, 

A  nature  sloping  to  the  southern  side  ; 

I  thank  her  for  it,  though  when  clouds  arise 

Such  natures  double-darken  gloomy  skies. 


TO   GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS          147 

I  muse  upon  the  margin  of  the  sea, 
Our  common  pathway  to  the  new  To  Be, 
Watching  the  sails,  that  lessen  more  and  more, 
Of  good  and  beautiful  embarked  before  ; 
With  bits  of  wreck  I  patch  the  boat  shall  bear 
Me  to  that  unexhausted  Otherwhere, 
Whose  friendly-peopled  shore  I  sometimes  see, 
By  soft  mirage  uplifted,  beckon  me, 
Nor  sadly  hear,  as  lower  sinks  the  sun, 
My  moorings  to  the  past  snap  one  by  one» 


SENTIMENT 

ENDYMION 

A  MYSTICAL  COMMENT   ON  TITIAN'S    "  SACRED  AND  PRO- 
FANE  LOVE  " 

I. 

MY  day  began  not  till  the  twilight  fell, 

And,  lo,  in  ether  from  heaven's  sweetest  well, 

The  New  Moon  swam  divinely  isolate 

In  maiden  silence,  she  that  makes  my  fate 

Haply  not  knowing  it,  or  only  so 

As  I  the  secrets  of  my  sheep  may  know 

Nor  ask  I  more,  entirely  blest  if  she, 

In  letting  me  adore,  ennoble  me 

To  height  of  what  the  Gods  meant  making  man, 

As  only  she  and  her  best  beauty  can. 

Mine  be  the  love  that  in  itself  can  find 

Seed  of  white  thoughts,  the  lilies  of  the  mind, 

Seed  of  that  glad  surrender  of  the  will 

That  finds  in  service  self's  true  purpose  still ; 

Love  that  in  outward  fairness  sees  the  tent 

Pitched  for  an  inmate  far  more  excellent ; 

Love  with  a  light  irradiate  to  the  core, 

Lit  at  her  lamp,  but  fed  from  inborn  store  ; 

Love  thrice-requited  with  the  single  joy 

Of  an  immaculate  vision  naught  could  cloy, 


ENDYM10N  149 

Dearer  because,  so  high  beyond  my  scope, 
My  life  grew  rich  with  her,  unbribed  by  hope 
Of  other  guerdon  save  to  think  she  knew 
One  grateful  votary  paid  her  all  her  due  ; 
Happy  if  she,  high-radiant  there,  resigned 
To  his  sure  trust  her  image  in  his  mind. 
O  fairer  even  than  Peace  is  when  she  comes  . 
Hushing  War's  tumult,  and  retreating  drums 
Fade  to  a  murmur  like  the  sough  of  bees 
Hidden  among  the  noon-stilled  linden-trees, 
Bringer  of  quiet,  thou  that  canst  allay 
The  dust  and  din  and  travail  of  the  day, 
Strewer  of  Silence,  Giver  of  the  dew 
That  doth  our  pastures  and  our  souls  renew, 
Still  dwell  remote,  still  on  thy  shoreless  sea 
Float  unattaiued  in  silent  empery, 
Still  light  my  thoughts,  nor  listen  to  a  prayer 
Would  make  thee  less  imperishably  fair ! 

II. 

Can,  then,  my  twofold  nature  find  content 

In  vain  conceits  of  airy  blandishment  ? 

Ask  I  no  more  ?     Since  yesterday  I  task 

My  storm-strewn  thoughts  to  tell  me  what  I  ask : 

Faint  premonitions  of  mutation  strange 

Steal  o'er  my  perfect  orb,  and,  with  the  change, 

Myself  am  changed  ;  the  shadow  of  my  earth 

Darkens  the  disk  of  that  celestial  worth 

Which  only  yesterday  could  still  suffice 

Upwards  to  waft  my  thoughts  in  sacrifice ; 

My  heightened  fancy  with  its  touches  warm 


150  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Moulds  to  a  woman's  that  ideal  form ; 

Nor  yet  a  woman's  wholly,  but  divine 

With  awe  her  purer  essence  bred  in  mine. 

Was  it  long  brooding  on  their  own  surmise, 

Which,  of  the  eyes  engendered,  fools  the  eyes, 

Or  have  I  seen  through  that  translucent  air 

A  Presence  shaped  in  its  seclusions  bare, 

My  Goddess  looking  on  me  from  above 

As  look  our  russet  maidens  when  they  love, 

But  high-uplifted  o'er  our  human  heat 

And  passion-paths  too  rough  for  her  pearl  feet  ? 

Slowly  the  Shape  took  outline  as  I  gazed 
At  her  full-orbed  or  crescent,  till,  bedazed 
With  wonder-working  light  that  subtly  wrought 
My  brain  to  its  own  substance,  steeping  thought 
In  trances  such  as  poppies  give,  I  saw 
Things  shut  from  vision  by  sight's  sober  law, 
Amorphous,  changeful,  but  defined  at  last 
Into  the  peerless  Shape  mine  eyes  hold  fast. 
This,  too,  at  first  I  worshipt :  soon,  like  wine, 
Her  eyes,  in  mine  poured,  f renzy-philtred  mine ; 
Passion  put  Worship's  priestly  raiment  on 
And  to  the  woman  knelt,  the  Goddess  gone. 
Was  I,  then,  more  than  mortal  made  ?  or  she 
Less  than  divine  that  she  might  mate  with  me  ? 
If  mortal  merely,  could  my  nature  cope 
With  such  o'ermastery  of  maddening  hope  ? 
If  Goddess,  could  she  feel  the  blissful  woe 
That  women  in  their  self -surrender  know  ? 


ENDYMION  151 


III. 

Long  she  abode  aloof  there  in  her  heaven, 
Far  as  the  grape-bunch  of  the  Pleiad  seven 
Beyond  my  madness'  utmost  leap  ;  but  here 
Mine  eyes  have  feigned  of  late  her  rapture  near, 
Moulded  of  mind-mist  that  broad  day  dispels, 
Here  in  these  shadowy  woods  and  brook-lulled  dells. 

Have  no  heaven-habitants  e'er  felt  a  void 

In  hearts  sublimed  with  ichor  unalloyed? 

E'er  longed  to  mingle  with  a  mortal  fate 

Intense  with  pathos  of  its  briefer  date  ? 

Could  she  partake,  and  live,  our  human  stains  ? 

Even  with  the  thought  there  tingles  through  my 

veins 

Sense  of  unwarned  renewal ;  I,  the  dead, 
Receive  and  house  again  the  ardor  fled, 
As  once  Alcestis ;  to  the  ruddy  brim 
Eeel  masculine  virtue  flooding  every  limb, 
And  life,  like  Spring  returning,  brings  the  key 
That  sets  my  senses  from  their  winter  free, 
Dancing  like  naked  fauns  too  glad  for  shame. 
Her  passion,  purified  to  palest  flame, 
Can  it  thus  kindle  ?     Is  her  purpose  this  ? 
I  will  not  argue,  lest  I  lose  a  bliss 
That  makes  me  dream  Tithonus'  fortune  mine, 
(Or  what  of  it  was  palpably  divine 
Ere  came  the  fruitlessly  immortal  gift ;) 
I  cannot  curb  my  hope's  imperious  drift 
That  wings  with  fire  my  dull  mortality ; 
Though  fancy-forgedf  't  is  all  I  feel  or  see. 


152  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 


IV. 

My  Goddess  sinks  ;  round  Latmos'  darkening  brow 

Trembles  the  parting  of  her  presence  now, 

Faint  as  the  perfume  left  upon  the  grass 

By  her  limbs'  pressure  or  her  feet  that  pass 

By  me  conjectured,  but  conjectured  so 

As  things  I  touch  far  fainter  substance  show. 

"Was  it  mine  eyes'  imposture  I  have  seen 

Flit  with  the  moonbeams  on  from  shade  to  sheen 

Through  the  wood-openings  ?     Nay,  I  see  her  now 

Out  of  her  heaven  new-lighted,  from  her  brow 

The  hair  breeze-scattered,  like  loose  mists  that  blow 

Across  her  crescent,  goldening  as  they  go 

High-kirtled  for  the  chase,  and  what  was  shown, 

Of  maiden  rondure,  like  the  rose  half-blown. 

If  dream,  turn  real !     If  a  vision,  stay  ! 

Take  mortal  shape,  my  philtre's  spell  obey  ! 

If  hags  compel  thee  from  thy  secret  sky 

With  gruesome  incantations,  why  not  I, 

Whose  only  magic  is  that  I  distil 

A  potion,  blent  of  passion,  thought,  and  will, 

Deeper  in  reach,  in  force  of  fate  more  rich, 

Than  e'er  was  juice  wrung  by  Thessalian  witch 

From  moon-enchanted  herbs,  —  a  potion  brewed 

Of  my  best  life  in  each  diviner  mood  ? 

Myself  the  elixir  am,  myself  the  bowl 

Seething  and  mantling  with  my  soul  of  soul. 

Taste  and  be  humanized :  what  though  the  cup, 

With  thy  lips  frenzied,  shatter  ?     Drink  it  up  ! 

If  but  these  arms  may  clasp,  o'erquited  so, 

My  world,  thy  heaven,  all  life  means  I  shall  know. 


ENDYMION  153 


V. 

Sure  she  hath  heard  my  prayer  and  granted  half, 

As  Gods  do  who  at  mortal  madness  laugh. 

Yet  if  life's  solid  things  illusion  seem, 

Why  may  not  substance  wear  the  mask  of  dream  ? 

In  sleep  she  comes ;  she  visits  me  in  dreams, 

And,  as  her  image  in  a  thousand  streams, 

So  in  my  veins,  that  her  obey,  she  sees, 

Floating  and  flaming  there,  her  images 

Bear  to  my  little  world's  remotest  zone 

Glad  messages  of  her,  and  her  alone. 

With  silence-sandalled  Sleep  she  comes  to  me, 

(But  softer-footed,  sweeter-browed,  than  she,) 

In  motion  gracious  as  a  seagull's  wing, 

And  all  her  bright  limbs,  moving,  seem  to  sing. 

Let  me  believe  so,  then,  if  so  I  may 

With  the.  night's  bounty  feed  my  beggared  day. 

In  dreams  I  see  her  lay  the  goddess  down 

With  bow  and  quiver,  and  her  crescent-crown 

Flicker  and  fade  away  to  dull  eclipse 

As  down  to  mine  she  deigns  her  longed-for  lips  ; 

And  as  her  neck  my  happy  arms  enfold, 

Flooded  and  lustred  with  her  loosened  gold, 

She  whispers  words  each  sweeter  than  a  kiss  : 

Then,  wakened  with  the  shock  of  sudden  bliss, 

My  arms  are  empty,  my  awakener  fled, 

And,  silent  in  the  silent  sky  o'erhead, 

But  coldly  as  on  ice-plated  snow,  she  gleams, 

Herself  the  mother  and  the  child  of  dreams. 


154  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 


VI. 

Gone  is  the  time  when  phantasms  could  appease 
My  quest  phantasmal  and  bring  cheated  ease  ; 
When,  if  she  glorified  my  dreams,  I  felt 
Through  all  my  limbs  a  change  immortal  melt 
At  touch  of  hers  illuminate  with  soul. 
Not  long  could  I  be  stilled  with  Fancy's  dole  ; 
Too  soon  the  mortal  mixture  in  me  caught 
Eed  fire  from  her  celestial  flame,  and  fought 
For  tyrannous  control  in  all  my  veins : 
My  fool's  prayer  was  accepted  ;  what  remains  ? 
Or  was  it  some  eidolon  merely,  sent 
By  her  who  rules  the  shades  in  banishment, 
To  mock  me  with  her  semblance  ?     Were  it  thus, 
How  'scape  I  shame,  whose  will  was  traitorous  ? 
What  shall  compensate  an  ideal  dimmed  ? 
How  blanch  again  my  statue  virgin-limbed, 
Soiled  with  the  incense-smoke  her  chosen  priest 
Poured  more  profusely  as  within  decreased 
The  fire  unearthly,  fed  with  coals  from  far 
Within  the  soul's  shrine  ?     Could  my  fallen  star 
Be  set  in  heaven  again  by  prayers  and  tears 
And  quenchless  sacrifice  of  all  my  years, 
How  would  the  victim  to  the  flamen  leap, 
And  life  for  life's  redemption  paid  hold  cheap  ! 

But  what  resource  when  she  herself  descends 
From  her  blue  throne,  and  o'er  her  vassal  bends 
That  shape  thrice-deified  by  love,  those  eyes 
Wherein  the  Lethe  of  all  others  lies  ? 


ENDYMION  155 

When   my  white   queen   of  heaven's   remoteness 

tires, 

Herself  against  her  other  self  conspires, 
Takes  woman's  nature,  walks  in  mortal  ways, 
And  finds  in  my  remorse  her  beauty's  praise  ? 
Yet  all  would  I  renounce  to  dream  again 
The   dream   in   dreams    fulfilled    that   made   my 

pain, 

My  noble  pain  that  heightened  all  my  years 
With  crowns  to  win  and  prowess-breeding  tears  ; 
Nay,  would  that  dream  renounce  once  more  to  see 
Her  from  her  sky  there  looking  down  at  me ! 

VII. 

Goddess,  reclimb  thy  heaven,  and  be  once  more 

An  inaccessible  splendor  to  adore, 

A  faith,  a  hope  of  such  transcendent  worth 

As  bred  ennobling  discontent  with  earth ; 

Give  back  the  longing,  back  the  elated  mood 

That,  fed  with  thee,  spurned  every  meaner  good  ; 

Give  even  the  spur  of  impotent  despair 

That,  without  hope,  still  bade  aspire  and  dare  ; 

Give  back  the  need  to  worship,  that  still  pours 

Down  to  the  soul  the  virtue  it  adores ! 

Nay,  brightest  and  most  beautiful,  deem  naught 
These  frantic  words,  the  reckless  wind  of  thought ; 
Still  stoop,  still  grant,  —  I  live  but  in  thy  will ; 
Be  what  thou  wilt,  but  be  a  woman  still ! 
Vainly  I  cried,  nor  could  myself  believe 
That  what  I  prayed  for  I  would  fain  receive. 


156  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

My  moon  is  set ;  my  vision  set  with  her ; 
No  more  can  worship  vain  my  pulses  stir. 
Goddess  Triform,  I  own  thy  triple  spell, 
My  heaven's  queen,  —  queen,  too,  of  my  earth  and 
hell! 


THE  BLACK  PREACHER 

A    BRETON    LEGEND 

AT  Carnac  in  Brittany,  close  on  the  bay, 

They  show  you  a  church,  or  rather  the  gray 

Ribs  of  a  dead  one,  left  there  to  bleach 

With  the  wreck  lying  near  on  the  crest  of  the 

beach, 

Roofless  and  splintered  with  thunder-stone, 
'Mid  lichen-blurred  gravestones  all  alone ; 
'T  is  the  kind  of  ruin  strange  sights  to  see 
That  may  have  their  teaching  for  you  and  me. 

Something  like  this,  then,  my  guide  had  to  tell, 
Perched  on  a  saint  cracked  across  when  he  fell ; 
But  since  I  might  chance  give  his  meaning  a 

wrench, 

He  talking  his  patois  and  I  English-French, 
I  '11  put  what  he  told  me,  preserving  the  tone, 
In  a  rhymed  prose  that  makes  it  half  his,  half  my 

own. 

An  abbey-church  stood  here,  once  on  a  time, 
Built  as  a  death-bed  atonement  for  crime : 


THE  BLACK  PREACHER  157 

'T  was  for  somebody's  sins,  I  know  not  whose ; 
But  sinners  are  plenty,  and  you  can  choose. 
Though  a  cloister  now  of  the  dusk-winged  bat, 
'T  was  rich  enough  once,  and  the  brothers  grew 

fat, 

Looser  in  girdle  and  purpler  in  jowl, 
Singing  good  rest  to  the  founder's  lost  soul. 

But  one  day  came  Northmen,  and  lithe  tongues  of 

fire 

Lapped  up  the  chapter-house,  licked  off  the  spire, 
And  left  all  a  rubbish-heap,  black  and  dreary, 
Where  only  the  wind  sings  miserere. 

No  priest  has  kneeled  since  at  the  altar's  foot, 
Whose  crannies  are  searched  by  the  nightshade's 

root, 

Nor  sound  of  service  is  ever  heard, 
Except  from  throat  of  the  unclean  bird, 
Hooting  to  unassoiled  shapes  as  they  pass 
In  midnights  unholy  his  witches'  mass, 
Or  shouting  "  Ho  !  ho  !  "  from  the  belfry  high 
As  the  Devil's  sabbath-train  whirls  by. 

But  once  a  year,  on  the  eve  of  All-Souls, 
Through  these  arches  dishallowed  the  organ  rolls, 
Fingers  long  fleshless  the  bell-ropes  work, 
The  chimes  peal  muffled  with  sea-mists  mirk, 
The  skeleton  windows  are  traced  anew 
On  the  baleful  flicker  of  corpse-lights  blue, 
And  the  ghosts  must  come,  so  the  legend  saith, 
To  a  preaching  of  Reverend  Doctor  Death. 


158  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Abbots,  monks,  barons,  and  ladies  fair 

Hear  the  dull  summons  and  gather  there  : 

No  rustle  of  silk  now,  no  clink  of  mail, 

Nor  ever  a  one  greets  his  church-mate  pale  ; 

No  knight  whispers  love  in  the  chatelaine's  ear, 

His  next-door  neighbor  this  five-hundred  year  ; 

No  monk  has  a  sleek  benedicite 

For  the  great  lord  shadowy  now  as  he ; 

Nor  needeth  any  to  hold  his  breath, 

Lest  he  lose  the  least  word  of  Doctor  Death. 

He  chooses  his  text  in  the  Book  Divine, 

Tenth  verse  of  the  Preacher  in  chapter  nine  :  — 

" 4  Whatsoever  thy  hand  shall  find  thee  to  do, 

That  do  with  thy  whole  might,  or  thou  shalt  rue  ; 

For  no  man  is  wealthy,  or  wise,  or  brave, 

In  that  quencher  of  might-be's  and  would-be's,  the 

grave.' 

Bid  by  the  Bridegroom,  '  To-morrow/  ye  said, 
And  To-morrow  was  digging   a  trench  for   your 

bed; 

Ye  said,  '  God  can  wait ;  let  us  finish  our  wine  ; ' 
Ye  had  wearied  Him,  fools,  and  that  last  knock 

was  mine ! " 

But  I  can't  pretend  to  give  you  the  sermon, 
Or  say  if  the  tongue  were  French,  Latin,  or  Ger- 
man ; 

Whatever  he  preached  in,  I  give  you  my  word 
The  meaning  was  easy  to  all  that  heard ; 
Famous  preachers  there  have  been  and  be, 
But  never  was  one  so  convincing  as  he ; 


ARCADIA   RE DI VIVA  159 

So  blunt  was  never  a  begging  friar, 

No  Jesuit's  tongue  so  barbed  with  fire, 

Cameronian  never,  nor  Methodist, 

Wrung  gall  out  of  Scripture  with  such  a  twist. 

And  would  you  know  who  his  hearers  must  be  ? 
I  tell  you  just  what  my  guide  told  me  : 
Excellent  teaching  men  have,  day  and  night, 
From  two  earnest  friars,  a  black  and  a  white, 
The  Dominican  Death  and  the  Carmelite  Life  ; 
And  between  these  two  there  is  never  strife, 
For  each  has  his  separate  office  and  station, 
And  each  his  own  work  in  the  congregation ; 
Whoso  to  the  white  brother  deafens  his  ears, 
And  cannot  be  wrought  on  by  blessings  or  tears, 
Awake  in  his  coffin  must  wait  and  wait, 
In   that    blackness    of   darkness   that   means   too 

late, 

And  come  once  a  year,  when  the  ghost-bell  tolls, 
As  till  Doomsday  it  shall  on  the  eve  of  All-Souls, 
To  hear  Doctor  Death,  whose  words  smart  with  the 

brine 
Of  the  Preacher,  the  tenth  verse  of  chapter  nine. 


ARCADIA  REDIVIVA 

I,  WALKING  the  familiar  street, 

While  a  crammed  horse-car  jingled  through  it, 
Was  lifted  from  my  prosy  feet 

And  in  Arcadia  ere  I  knew  it. 


160  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Fresh  sward  for  gravel  soothed  my  tread, 
And  shepherd's  pipes  my  ear  delighted 

The  riddle  may  be  lightly  read  : 
I  met  two  lovers  newly  plighted. 

They  murmured  by  in  happy  care, 

New  plans  for  paradise  devising, 
Just  as  the  moon,  with  pensive  stare, 

O'er  Mistress  Craigie's  pines  was  rising. 

Astarte,  known  nigh  threescore  years, 
Me  to  no  speechless  rapture  urges ; 

Them  in  Elysium  she  enspheres, 

Queen,  from  of  old,  of  thaumaturges. 

The  railings  put  forth  bud  and  bloom, 

The  house-fronts  all  with  myrtles  twine  them, 

And  light-winged  Loves  in  every  room 

Make  nests,  and  then  with  kisses  line  them. 

O  sweetness  of  untasted  life ! 

O  dream,  its  own  supreme  fulfilment ! 
O  hours  with  all  illusion  rife, 

As  ere  the  heart  divined  what  ill  meant ! 

"  Et  ego"  sighed  I  to  myself, 

And  strove  some  vain  regrets  to  bridle, 
"  Though  now  laid  dusty  on  the  shelf, 

Was  hero  once  of  such  an  idyl ! 

"  An  idyl  ever  newly  sweet, 

Although  since  Adam's  day  recited, 


ARCADIA   R EDI  VIVA  161 

Whose  measures  time  them  to  Love's  feet, 
Whose  sense  is  every  ill  requited." 

Maiden,  if  I  may  counsel,  dram 

Each  drop  of  this  enchanted  season, 
For  even  our  honeymoons  must  wane, 

Convicted  of  green  cheese  by  Reason. 

And  none  will  seem  so  safe  from  change, 

Nor  in  such  skies  benignant  hover, 
As  this,  beneath  whose  witchery  strange 

You  tread  on  rose-leaves  with  your  lover. 

The  glass  unfilled  all  tastes  can  fit, 
As  round  its  brim  Conjecture  dances ; 

For  not  Mephisto's  self  hath  wit 
To  draw  such  vintages  as  Fancy's. 

When  our  pulse  beats  its  minor  key, 

When  play-time  halves  and  school-time  doubles, 
Age  fills  the  cup  with  serious  tea, 

Which  once  Dame  Clicquot  starred  with  bubbles. 

"  Fie,  Mr.  Graybeard  !     Is  this  wise  ? 

Is  this  the  moral  of  a  poet, 
Who,  when  the  plant  of  Eden  dies, 

Is  privileged  once  more  to  sow  it  ? 

"  That  herb  of  clay-disdaining  root, 
From  stars  secreting  what  it  feeds  on, 

Is  burnt-out  passion's  slag  and  soot 
Fit  soil  to  strew  its  dainty  seeds  on  ? 


162  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

"  Pray,  why,  if  in  Arcadia  once, 

Need  one  so  soon  forget  the  way  there  ? 

Or  why,  once  there,  be  such  a  dunce 
As  not  contentedly  to  stay  there  ?  " 

Dear  child,  't  was  but  a  sorry  jest, 
And  from  my  heart  I  hate  the  cynic 

Who  makes  the  Book  of  Life  a  nest 
For  comments  staler  than  rabbinic. 

If  Love  his  simple  spell  but  keep, 

Life  with  ideal  eyes  to  flatter, 
The  Grail  itself  were  crockery  cheap 

To  Every-day's  communion-platter. 

One  Darby  is  to  me  well  known, 

Who,  as  the  hearth  between  them  blazes, 

Sees  the  old  moonlight  shine  on  Joan, 
And  float  her  youthward  in  its  hazes. 

He  rubs  his  spectacles,  he  stares,  — 

'T  is  the  same  face  that  witched  him  early  I 

He  gropes  for  his  remaining  hairs,  — 
Is  this  a  fleece  that  feels  so  curly  ? 

"  Good  heavens  !  but  now  't  was  winter  gray, 
And  I  of  years  had  more  than  plenty ; 

The  almanac  's  a  fool !     'T  is  May  ! 
Hang  family  Bibles  !     I  am  twenty ! 

"  Come,  Joan,  your  arm  ;  we  '11  walk  the  room 
The  lane,  I  mean  —  do  you  remember  ? 


THE  NEST  163 

How  confident  the  roses  bloom, 
As  if  it  ne'er  could  be  December ! 


"  Nor  more  it  shall,  while  in  your  eyes 

My  heart  its  summer  heat  recovers, 
And  you,  howe'er  your  mirror  lies, 
Find  your  old  beauty  in  your  lover's.' 


THE  NEST 

MAY 

WHEN  oaken  woods  with  buds  are  pink, 
And  new-come  birds  each  morning  sing, 

When  fickle  May  on  Summer's  brink 
Pauses,  and  knows  not  which  to  fling, 

Whether  fresh  bud  and  bloom  again, 

Or  hoar-frost  silvering  hill  and  plain, 

Then  from  the  honeysuckle  gray 
The  oriole  with  experienced  quest 

Twitches  the  fibrous  bark  away, 
The  cordage  of  his  hammock-nest, 

Cheering  his  labor  with  a  note 

Rich  as  the  orange  of  his  throat. 

High  o'er  the  loud  and  dusty  road 
The  soft  gray  cup  in  safety  swings, 

To  brim  ere  August  with  its  load 

Of  downy  breasts  and  throbbing  wings, 

O'er  which  the  friendly  elm-tree  heaves 

An  emerald  roof  with  sculptured  eaves. 


164  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Below,  the  noisy  World  drags  by 
In  the  old  way,  because  it  must, 

The  bride  with  heartbreak  in  her  eye, 
The  mourner  following  hated  dust : 

Thy  duty,  winged  flame  of  Spring, 

Is  but  to  love,  and  fly,  and  sing. 

Oh,  happy  life,  to  soar  and  sway 
Above  the  life  by  mortals  led, 

Singing  the  merry  months  away, 
Master,  not  slave  of  daily  bread, 

And,  when  the  Autumn  comes,  to  flee 

Wherever  sunshine  beckons  thee  ! 


PALINODE.  DECEMBER. 

Like  some  lorn  abbey  now,  the  wood 
Stands  roofless  in  the  bitter  air ; 

In  ruins  on  its  floor  is  strewed 

The  carven  foliage  quaint  and  rare, 

And  homeless  winds  complain  along 

The  columned  choir  once  thrilled  with  song. 

And  thou,  dear  nest,  whence  joy  and  praise 
The  thankful  oriole  used  to  pour, 

Swing'st  empty  while  the  north  winds  chase 
Their  snowy  swarms  from  Labrador  : 

But,  loyal  to  the  happy  past, 

I  love  thee  still  for  what  thou  wast. 

Ah,  when  the  Summer  graces  flee 

From  other  nests  more  dear  than  thou, 


A    YOUTHFUL  EXPERIMENT  165 

And,  where  June  crowded  once,  I  see 

Only  bare  trunk  and  disleaved  bough ; 
When  springs  of  life  that  gleamed  and  gushed 
Run  chilled,  and  slower,  and  are  hushed ; 

When  our  own  branches,  naked  long, 
The  vacant  nests  of  Spring  betray, 

Nurseries  of  passion,  love,  and  song 
That  vanished  as  our  year  grew  gray ; 

When  Life  drones  o'er  a  tale  twice  told 

O'er  embers  pleading  with  the  cold,  — 

I  '11  trust,  that,  like  the  birds  of  Spring, 
Our  good  goes  not  without  repair, 

But  only  flies  to  soar  and  sing 
Far  off  in  some  diviner  air, 

Where  we  shall  find  it  in  the  calms 

Of  that  fair  garden  'neath  the  palms. 


A    YOUTHFUL    EXPERIMENT    IN    ENGLISH 
HEXAMETERS 

IMPRESSIONS     OF     HOMER 

SOMETIMES  come  pauses  of  calm,  when  the  rapt 
bard,  holding  his  heart  back, 

Over  his  deep  mind  muses,  as  when  o'er  awe- 
stricken  ocean 

Poises  a  heapt  cloud  luridly,  ripening  the  gale  and 
the  thunder ; 

Slow  rolls  onward  the  verse  with  a  long  swell  heav- 
ing and  swinging, 


166  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Seeming  to  wait  till,  gradually  wid'ning  from  far- 
off  horizons, 
Piling  the   deeps   up,   heaping   the   glad -hearted 

surges  before  it, 
Gathers  the  thought  as  a  strong  wind  darkening 

and  cresting  the  tumult. 
Then  every  pause,  every  heave,  each  trough  in  the 

waves,  has  its  meaning ; 
Full-sailed,  forth  like  a  tall  ship  steadies  the  theme, 

and  around  it, 
Leaping  beside  it  in  glad  strength,  running  in  wild 

glee  beyond  it, 
Harmonies   billow  exulting  and  floating  the   soul 

where  it  lists  them, 
Swaying  the  listener's  fantasy  hither  and  thither 

like  driftweed. 


BIRTHDAY  VERSES 

t 

WRITTEN     IN    A     CHILD'S     ALBUM 


*T  WAS  sung  of  old  in  hut  and  hall 
How  once  a  king  in  evil  hour 
Hung  musing  o'er  his  castle  wall, 
And,  lost  in  idle  dreams,  let  fall 
Into  the  sea  his  ring  of  power. 

Then,  let  him  sorrow  as  he  might, 
And  pledge  his  daughter  and  his  throne 
To  who  restored  the  jewel  bright, 
The  broken  spell  would  ne'er  unite ; 
The  grim  old  ocean  held  its  own. 


ESTRANGEMENT  167 

Those  awful  powers  on  man  that  wait, 
On  man,  the  beggar  or  the  king, 
To  hovel  bare  or  hall  of  state 
A  magic  ring  that  masters  fate 
With  each  succeeding  birthday  bring. 

Therein  are  set  four  jewels  rare  : 
Pearl  winter,  summer's  ruby  blaze, 
Spring's  emerald,  and,  than  all  more  fair, 
Fall's  pensive  opal,  doomed  to  bear 
A  heart  of  fire  bedreamed  with  haze. 

To  him  the  simple  spell  who  knows 
The  spirits  of  the  ring  to  sway, 
Fresh  power  with  every  sunrise  flows, 
And  royal  pursuivants  are  those 
That  fly  his  mandates  to  obey. 

But  he  that  with  a  slackened  will  » 

Dreams  of  things  past  or  things  to  be, 
From  him  the  charm  is  slipping  still, 
And  drops,  ere  he  suspect  the  ill, 
Into  the  inexorable  sea. 


ESTRANGEMENT 

THE  path  from  me  to  you  that  led, 
Untrodden  long,  with  grass  is  grown, 

Mute  carpet  that  his  lieges  spread 
Before  the  Prince  Oblivion 

When  he  goes  visiting  the  dead. 


168  HEARTSEASE   AND   RUE 

And  who  are  they  but  who  forget  ? 

You,  who  my  coining  could  surmise 
Ere  any  hint  of  me  as  yet 

Warned  other  ears  and  other  eyes, 
See  the  path  blurred  without  regret. 

But  when  I  trace  its  windings  sweet 
With  saddened  steps,  at  every  spot 

That  feels  the  memory  in  my  feet, 
Each  grass-blade  turns  forget-me-not, 

Where  murmuring  bees  your  name  repeat. 


PHCEBE 

EKE  pales  in  Heaven  the  morning  star, 
A  bird,  the  loneliest  of  its  kind, 
Hears  Dawn's  faint  footfall  from  afar 
While  all  its  mates  are  dumb  and  blind. 

It  is  a  wee  sad-colored  thing, 
As  shy  and  secret  as  a  maid, 
That,  ere  in  choir  the  robins  ring, 
Pipes  its  own  name  like  one  afraid. 

It  seems  pain-prompted  to  repeat 
The  story  of  some  ancient  ill, 
But  Phoebe  !  Phoebe  !  sadly  sweet 
Is  all  it  says,  and  then  is  still. 

It  calls  and  listens.     Earth  and  sky, 
Hushed  by  the  pathos  of  its  fate, 


PHCEBE  169 

Listen :  no  whisper  of  reply 

Comes  from  its  doom-dissevered  mate. 

Phoebe  !  it  calls  and  calls  again, 
And  Ovid,  could  he  but  have  heard, 
Had  hung  a  legendary  pain 
About  the  memory  of  the  bird  ; 

A  pain  articulate  so  long 
In  penance  of  some  mouldered  crime 
Whose  ghost  still  flies  the  Furies'  thong 
Down  the  waste  solitudes  of  time. 

Waif  of  the  young  World's  wonder-hour. 
When  gods  found  mortal  maidens  fair, 
And  will  malign  was  joined  with  power 
Love's  kindly  laws  to  overbear, 

Like  Progne,  did  it  feel  the  stress 
And  coil  of  the  prevailing  words 
Close  round  its  being,  and  compress 
Man's  ampler  nature  to  a  bird's  ? 

One  only  memory  left  of  all 
The  motley  crowd  of  vanished  scenes, 
Hers,  and  vain  impulse  to  recall 
By  repetition  what  it  means. 

Phoebe  !  is  all  it  has  to  say 
In  plaintive  cadence  o'er  and  o'er, 
Like  children  that  have  lost  their  way, 
And  know  their  names,  but  nothing  more. 


170  HEARTSEASE  AND   RUE 

Is  it  a  type,  since  Nature's  Lyre 
Vibrates  to  every  note  in  man, 
Of  that  insatiable  desire, 
Meant  to  be  so  since  life  began  ? 

I,  in  strange  lands  at  gray  of  dawn, 
Wakeful,  have  heard  that  fruitless  plaint 
Through  Memory's  chambers  deep  withdrawn 
Renew  its  iterations  faint. 

So  nigh !  yet  from  remotest  years 
It  summons  back  its  magic,  rife 
With  longings  unappeased,  and  tears 
Drawn  from  the  very  source  of  life. 


DAS   EWIG-WEIBLICHE 

How  was  I  worthy  so  divine  a  loss, 

Deepening  my  midnights,  kindling  all  my  morns  ? 
Why  waste  such  precious  wood  to  make  my  cross, 

Such  far-sought  roses  for  my  crown  of  thorns  ? 

And  when  she  came,  how  earned  I  such  a  gift  ? 

Why  spend  on  me,  a  poor  earth-delving  mole, 
The  fireside  sweetnesses,  the  heavenward  lift, 

The  hourly  mercy,  of  a  woman's  soul  ? 

Ah,  did  we  know  to  give  her  all  her  right, 

What  wonders  even  in  our  poor  clay  were  done ! 

It  is  not  Woman  leaves  us  to  our  night, 

But  our  brute  earth  that  grovels  from  her  sun. 


THE  RECALL  171 

Our  nobler  cultured  fields  and  gracious  domes 
We  whirl  too  oft  from  her  who  still  shines  on 

To  light  in  vain  our  caves  and  clefts,  the  homes 
Of  night-bird  instincts  pained  till  she  be  gone. 

Still  must  this  body  starve  our  souls  with  shade  ; 

But  when  Death  makes  us  what  we  were  before, 
Then  shall  her  sunshine  all  our  depths  invade, 

And  not  a  shadow  stain  heaven's  crystal  floor. 


THE  RECALL 

COME  back  before  the  birds  are  flown, 
Before  the  leaves  desert  the  tree, 
And,  through  the  lonely  alleys  blown, 
Whisper  their  vain  regrets  to  me 
Who  drive  before  a  blast  more  rude, 
•The  plaything  of  my  gusty  mood, 
In  vain  pursuing  and  pursued ! 

Nay,  come  although  the  boughs  be  bare, 

Though  snowflakes  fledge  the  summer's  nest, 

And  in  some  far  Ausonian  air 

The  thrush,  your  minstrel,  warm  his  breast. 

Come,  sunshine's  treasurer,  and  bring 

To  doubting  flowers  their  faith  in  spring, 

To  birds  and  me  the  need  to  sing ! 


172  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 


ABSENCE 

SLEEP  is  Death's  image,  —  poets  tell  us  so ; 
But  Absence  is  the  bitter  self  of  Death, 
And,  you  away,  Life's  lips  their  red  forego, 
Parched  in  an  air  unfreshened  by  your  breath. 

Light  of  those  eyes  that  made  the  light  of  mine, 
Where  shine  you?     On  what  happier  fields  and 

flowers  ? 

Heaven's  lamps  renew  their  lustre  less  divine, 
But  only  serve  to  count  my  darkened  hours. 

If  with  your  presence  went  your  image  too, 
That  brain-born  ghost  my  path  would  never  cross 
Which  meets  me  now  where'er  I  once  met  you, 
Then  vanishes,  to  multiply  my  loss. 


MONNA   LISA 

SHE  gave  me  all  that  woman  can, 
Nor  her  soul's  nunnery  forego, 
A  confidence  that  man  to  man 
Without  remorse  can  never  show. 

Rare  art,  that  can  the  sense  refine 
Till  not  a  pulse  rebellious  stirs, 
And,  since  she  never  can  be  mine, 
Makes  it  seem  sweeter  to  be  hers  ! 


THE   OPTIMIST  173 


THE   OPTIMIST 

TUKBID  from  London's  noise  and  smoke, 
Here  I  find  air  and  quiet  too : 
Air  filtered  through  the  beech  and  oak, 
Quiet  by  nothing  harsher  broke 
Than  wood-dove's  meditative  coo. 

The  Truce  of  God  is  here  ;  the  breeze 
Sighs  as  men  sigh  relieved  from  care, 
Or  tilts  as  lightly  in  the  trees 
As  might  a  robin :  all  is  ease, 
With  pledge  of  ampler  ease  to  spare. 

Time,  leaning  on  his  scythe,  forgets 
To  turn  the  hour-glass  in  his  hand, 
And  all  life's  petty  cares  and  frets, 
Its  teasing  hopes  and  weak  regrets, 
Are  still  as  that  oblivious  sand. 

Repose  fills  all  the  generous  space 
Of  undulant  plain ;  the  rook  and  crow 
Hush  ;  ?t  is  as  if  a  silent  grace, 
By  Nature  murmured,  calmed  the  face 
Of  Heaven  above  and  Earth  below. 

From  past  and  future  toils  I  rest, 

One  Sabbath  pacifies  my  year ; 

I  am  the  halcyon,  this  my  nest ; 

And  all  is  safely  for  the  best 

While  the  World  's  there  and  I  am  here. 


174  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

So  1  turn  tory  for  the  nonce, 
And  think  the  radical  a  bore, 
Who  cannot  see,  thick-witted  dunce, 
That  what  was  good  for  people  once 
Must  be  as  good  f orevermore. 

Sun,  sink  no  deeper  down  the  sky ; 
Earth,  never  change  this  summer  mood  ; 
Breeze,  loiter  thus  forever  by, 
Stir  the  dead  leaf  or  let  it  lie  ; 
Since  I  am  happy,  all  is  good. 
MIDDLETON,  August,  1884. 

ON  BURNING  SOME  OLD  LETTERS 

WITH  what  odorous  woods  and  spices 
Spared  for  royal  sacrifices, 
With  what  costly  gums  seld-seen, 
Hoarded  to  embalm  a  queen, 
With  what  frankincense  and  myrrh, 
Burn  these  precious  parts  of  her, 
Full  of  life  and  light  and  sweetness 
As  a  summer  day's  completeness, 
Joy  of  sun  and  song  of  bird 
Running  wild  in  every  word, 
Full  of  all  the  superhuman 
Grace  and  winsomeness  of  woman  ? 

O'er  these  leaves  her  wrist  has  slid, 
Thrilled  with  veins  where  fire  is  hid 
'Neath  the  skin's  pellucid  veil, 
Like  the  opal's  passion  pale  ; 


ON  BURNING   SOME   OLD  LETTERS     175 

This  her  breath  has  sweetened  ;  this 
Still  seems  trembling  with  the  kiss 
She  half-ventured  on  my  name, 
Brow  and  cheek  and  throat  aflame  ; 
Over  all  caressing  lies 
Sunshine  left  there  by  her  eyes  ; 
From  them  all  an  effluence  rare 
With  her  nearness  fills  the  air, 
Till  the  murmur  I  half-hear 
Of  her  light  feet  drawing  near. 

Rarest  woods  were  coarse  and  rough, 
Sweetest  spice  not  sweet  enough, 
Too  impure  all  earthly  fire 
For  this  sacred  funeral-pyre ; 
These  rich  relics  must  suffice 
For  their  own  dear  sacrifice. 

Seek  we  first  an  altar  fit 
For  such  victims  laid  on  it : 
It  shall  be  this  slab  brought  home 
In  old  happy  days  from  Rome,  — 
Lazuli,  once  blest  to  line 
Dian's  inmost  cell  and  shrine. 
Gently  now  I  lay  them  there, 
Pure  as  Dian's  forehead  bare, 
Yet  suffused  with  warmer  hue, 
Such  as  only  Latmos  knew. 

Fire  I  gather  from  the  sun 
In  a  virgin  lens  :  't  is  done  ! 
Mount  the  flames,  red,  yellow,  blue, 


176  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

As  her  rnoods  were  shining  through, 
Of  the  moment's  impulse  born,  — 
Moods  of  sweetness,  playful  scorn, 
Half  defiance,  half  surrender, 
More  than  cruel,  more  than  tender, 
Flouts,  caresses,  sunshine,  shade, 
Gracious  doublings  of  a  maid 
Infinite  in  guileless  art, 
Playing  hide-seek  with  her  heart. 

On  the  altar  now,  alas, 
There  they  lie  a  crinkling  mass, 
Writhing  still,  as  if  with  grief 
Went  the  life  from  every  leaf  ; 
Then  (heart-breaking  palimpsest !) 
Vanishing  ere  wholly  guessed, 
Suddenly  some  lines  flash  back, 
Traced  in  lightning  on  the  black, 
And  confess,  till  now  denied, 
All  the  fire  they  strove  to  hide. 
What  they  told  me,  sacred  trust, 
Stays  to  glorify  my  dust, 
There  to  burn  through  dust  and  damp 
Like  a  mage's  deathless  lamp, 
While  an  atom  of  this  frame 
Lasts  to  feed  the  dainty  flame. 

All  is  ashes  now,  but  they 

In  my  soul  are  laid  away, 

And  their  radiance  round  me  hovers 

Soft  as  moonlight  over  lovers, 

Shutting  her  and  me  alone 


THE  PETITION  177 

In  dream-Edens  of  our  own  ; 

First  of  lovers  to  invent 

Love,  and  teach  men  what  it  meant. 


THE   PROTEST 

I  COULD  not  bear  to  see  those  eyes 

On  all  with  wasteful  largess  shine, 

And  that  delight  of  welcome  rise 

Like  sunshine  strained  through  amber  wine, 

But  that  a  glow  from  deeper  skies, 

From  conscious  fountains  more  divine, 

Is  (is  it  ?)  mine. 

Be  beautiful  to  all  mankind, 

As  Nature  fashioned  thee  to  be ; 

'T  would  anger  me  did  all  not  find 

The  sweet  perfection  that 's  in  thee : 

Yet  keep  one  charm  of  charms  behind,  — 

Nay,  thou  'rt  so  rich,  keep  two  or  three 

For  (is  it  ?)  me  ! 


THE   PETITION 

OH,  tell  me  less  or  tell  me  more, 
Soft  eyes  with  mystery  at  the  core, 
That  always  seem  to  meet  my  own 
Frankly  as  pansies  fully  grown, 
Yet  waver  still  'tween  no  and  yes ! 


178  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

So  swift  to  cavil  and  deny, 
Then  parley  with  concessions  shy, 
Dear  eyes,  that  make  their  youth  be  mine 
And  through  my  inmost  shadows  shine, 
Oh,  tell  me  more  or  tell  me  less ! 


FACT  OR  FANCY? 

IN  town  I  hear,  scarce  wakened  yet, 
My  neighbor's  clock  behind  the  wall 
Record  the  day's  increasing  debt, 
And  Cuckoo  !  Cuckoo  !  faintly  call. 

Our  senses  run  in  deepening  grooves, 
Thrown  out  of  which  they  lose  their  tact, 
And  consciousness  with  effort  moves 
From  habit  past  to  present  fact. 

So,  in  the  country  waked  to-day, 
I  hear,  unwitting  of  the  change, 
A  cuckoo's  throb  from  far  away 
Begin  to  strike,  nor  think  it  strange. 

The  sound  creates  its  wonted  frame : 
My  bed  at  home,  the  songster  hid 
Behind  the  wainscoting,  —  all  came 
As  long  association  bid. 

Then,  half  aroused,  ere  yet  Sleep's  mist 
From  the  mind's  uplands  furl  away, 
To  the  familiar  sound  I  list, 
Disputed  for  by  Night  and  Day. 


AGRO-DOLCE  179 

I  count  to  learn  how  late  it  is, 

Until,  arrived  at  thirty-four, 

I  question,  "  What  strange  world  is  this 

Whose  lavish  hours  would  make  me  poor  ?  " 

Cuckoo  !   Cuckoo  !     Still  on  it  went, 
With  hints  of  mockery  in  its  tone  ; 
How  could  such  hoards  of  time  be  spent 
By  one  poor  mortal's  wit  alone  ? 

I  have  it !     Grant,  ye  kindly  Powers, 

I  from  this  spot  may  never  stir, 

If  only  these  uncounted  hours 

May  pass,  and  seem  too  short,  with  Her ! 

But  who  She  is,  her  form  and  face, 
These  to  the  world  of  dream  belong ; 
She  moves  through  fancy's  visioned  space, 
Unbodied,  like  the  cuckoo's  song. 


AGRO-DOLCE 

ONE  kiss  from  all  others  prevents  me, 
And  sets  all  my  pulses  astir, 
And  burns  on  my  lips  and  torments  me  : 
'T  is  the  kiss  that  I  fain  would  give  her. 

One  kiss  for  all  others  requites  me, 
Although  it  is  never  to  be, 
And  sweetens  rny  dreams  and  invites  me 
'T  is  the  kiss  that  she  dare  not  give  me. 


180  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Ah,  could  it  be  mine,  it  were  sweeter 
Than  honey  bees  garner  in  dream, 
Though  its  bliss  on  my  lips  were  fleeter 
Than  a  swallow's  dip  to  the  stream. 

And  yet,  thus  denied,  it  can  never 
In  the  prose  of  life  vanish  away ; 
O'er  my  lips  it  must  hover  forever, 
The  sunshine  and  shade  of  my  day. 


THE   BROKEN  TRYST 

WALKING  alone  where  we  walked  together, 
When  June  was  breezy  and  blue, 
I  watch  in  the  gray  autumnal  weather 
The  leaves  fall  inconstant  as  you. 

If  a  dead  leaf  startle  behind  me, 

I  think  't  is  your  garment's  hem, 

And,  oh,  where  no  memory  could  find  me, 

Might  I  whirl  away  with  them  ! 


CASA   SIN  ALMA 

RECUERDO    DE    MADRID 

SiLENCloso  por  la  puerta 

Voy  de  su  casa  desierta 

Do  siempre  feliz  entre, 

Y  la  encuentro  en  vano  abierta 

Cual  la  boca  de  una  muerta 

Despues  que  el  alma  se  f  ue. 


A    CHRISTMAS   CAROL  181 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

FOR   THE   SUNDAY-SCHOOL  CHILDREN  OF  THE  CHURCH  OF 
THE    DISCIPLES 

"  WHAT  means  this  glory  round  our  feet," 

The  Magi  mused,  "  more  bright  than  morn  ?  " 
And  voices  chanted  clear  and  sweet, 

"  To-day  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  born  !  " 

"  What  means  that  star,"  the  Shepherds  said, 

"  That  brightens  through  the  rocky  glen  ?  " 
And  angels,  answering  overhead, 

Sang,  "  Peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men !  " 

'T  is  eighteen  hundred  years  and  more 
Since  those  sweet  oracles  were  dumb  ; 

We  wait  for  Him,  like  them  of  yore ; 
Alas,  He  seems  so  slow  to  come ! 

But  it  was  said,  in  words  of  gold 

No  time  or  sorrow  e'er  shall  dim, 
That  little  children  might  be  bold 

In  perfect  trust  to  come  to  Him. 

All  round  about  our  feet  shall  shine 
A  light  like  that  the  wise  men  saw, 

If  we  our  loving  wills  incline 

To  that  sweet  Life  which  is  the  Law. 

So  shall  we  learn  to  understand 
The  simple  faith  of  shepherds  then, 


182  HEARTSEASE   AND  RUE 

And,  clasping  kindly  hand  in  hand, 

Sing,  "  Peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  !  " 

And  they  who  do  their  souls  no  wrong, 
But  keep  at  eve  the  faith  of  morn, 

Shall  daily  hear  the  angel- song, 

"  To-day  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  born  !  " 


MY  PORTRAIT  GALLERY 

OFT  round  my  hall  of  portraiture  I  gaze, 
By  Memory  reared,  the  artist  wise  and  holy, 
From  stainless  quarries  of  deep-buried  days. 
There,  as  I  muse  in  soothing  melancholy, 
Your  faces  glow  in  more  than  mortal  youth, 
Companions  of  my  prime,  now  vanished  wholly, 
The  loud,  impetuous  boy,  the  low-voiced  maiden, 
Now  for  the  first  time  seen  in  flawless  truth. 
Ah,  never  master  that  drew  mortal  breath 
Can  match  thy  portraits,  just  and  generous  Death, 
Whose  brush  with  sweet  regretful  tints  is  laden ! 
Thou  paintest  that  which  struggled  here  below 
Half  understood,  or  understood  for  woe, 
And  with  a  sweet  forewarning 
Mak'st  round  the  sacred  front  an  aureole  glow 
Woven  of  that  light  that  rose  on  Easter  morning. 


SONNET  183 

PAOLO  TO  FRANCESCA 

I  WAS  with  thee  in  Heaven  :  I  cannot  tell 
If  years  or  moments,  so  the  sudden  bliss, 
When  first  we  found,  then  lost,  us  in  a  kiss, 
Abolished  Time,  abolished  Earth  and  Hell, 
Left  only  Heaven.     Then  from  our  blue  there  fell 
The  dagger's  flash,  and  did  not  fall  amiss, 
For  nothing  now  can  rob  my  life  of  this,  — 
That  once  with  thee  in  Heaven,  all  else  is  well. 
Us,  undivided  when  man's  vengeance  came, 
God's  half-forgives  that  doth  not  here  divide  ; 
And,  were  this  bitter  whirl-blast  fanged  with  flame, 
To  me  't  were  summer,  we  being  side  by  side : 
This  granted,  I  God's  mercy  will  not  blame, 
For,  given  thy  nearness,  nothing  is  denied. 


SONNET 

SCOTTISH   BORDER 

As  sinks  the  sun  behind  yon  alien  hills 
Whose  heather-purpled  slopes,  in  glory  rolled, 
Flush  all  my  thought  with  momentary  gold, 
What  pang  of  vague  regret  my  fancy  thrills  ? 
Here  't  is  enchanted  ground  the  peasant  tills, 
Where  the  shy  ballad  dared  its  blooms  unfold, 
And  memory's  glamour  makes  new  sights  seem  old, 
As  when  our  life  some  vanished  dream  fulfils. 
Yet  not  to  thee  belong  these  painless  tears, 
Land  loved  ere  seen :  before  my  darkened  eyes, 


184  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

From  far  beyond  the  waters  and  the  years, 
Horizons  mute  that  wait  their  poet  rise  ; 
The  stream  before  me  fades  and  disappears, 
And  in  the  Charles  the  western  splendor  dies. 


SONNET 

ON   BEING   ASKED   FOR   AN    AUTOGRAPH   IN   VENICE 

AMID  these  fragments  of  heroic  days 
When  thought  met  deed  with  mutual  passion's  leap, 
There  sits  a  Fame  whose  silent  trump  makes  cheap 
What  short-lived  rumor  of  ourselves  we  raise. 
They  had  far  other  estimate  of  praise 
Who  stamped  the  signet  of  their  souls  so  deep 
In  art  and  action,  and  whose  memories  keep 
Their  height  like  stars  above  our  misty  ways : 
In  this  grave  presence  to  record  my  name 
Something  within  me  hangs  the  head  and  shrinks. 
Dull  were  the  soul  without  some  joy  in  fame ; 
Yet  here  to  claim  remembrance  were,  methinks, 
Like  him  who,  in  the  desert's  awful  frame, 
Notches  his  cockney  initials  on  the  Sphinx. 


THE  DANCING  BEAR 

FAR  over  Elf-land  poets  stretch  their  sway, 
And  win  their  dearest  crowns  beyond  the  goal 
Of  their  own  conscious  purpose  ;  they  control 
With  gossamer  threads  wide-flown  our  fancy's  play, 
And  so  our  action.     On  my  walk  to-day, 


THE  MAPLE  185 

A  wallowing  bear  begged  clumsily  his  toll, 

When  straight  a  vision  rose  of  Atta  Troll, 

And  scenes  ideal  witched  mine  eyes  away. 

"  Merci,  Mossieu  !  "  the  astonished  bear- ward  cried, 

Grateful  for  thrice  his  hope  to  me,  the  slave 

Of  partial  memory,  seeing  at  his  side 

A  bear  immortal.     The  glad  dole  I  gave 

Was  none  of  mine ;  poor  Heine  o'er  the  wide 

Atlantic  welter  stretched  it  from  his  grave. 


THE  MAPLE 

THE  Maple  puts  her  corals  on  in  May, 

While  loitering  frosts  about  the  lowlands  cling, 

To  be  in  tune  with  what  the  robins  sing, 

Plastering  new  log-huts  'mid  her  branches  gray  ; 

But  when  the  Autumn  southward  turns  away, 

Then  in  her  veins  burns  most  the  blood  of  Spring, 

And  every  leaf,  intensely  blossoming, 

Makes  the  year's  sunset  pale  the  set  of  day. 

O  Youth  unprescient,  were  it  only  so 

With  trees  you  plant,  and  in  whose  shade  reclined, 

Thinking  their  drifting  blooms  Fate's  coldest  snow, 

You  carve  dear  names  upon  the  faithful  rind, 

Nor  in  that  vernal  stem  the  cross  foreknow 

That  Age  shall  bear,  silent,  yet  unresigned  I 


186  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 


NIGHTWATCHES 

WHILE  the  slow  clock,  as  they  were  miser's  gold, 
Counts  and  recounts  the  mornward  steps  of  Time, 
The  darkness  thrills  with  conscience  of  each  crime 
By  Death  committed,  daily  grown  more  bold. 
Once  more  the  list  of  all  my  wrongs  is  told, 
And  ghostly  hands  stretch  to  me  from  my  prime 
Helpless  farewells,  as  from  an  alien  clime ; 
For  each  new  loss  redoubles  all  the  old. 
This  morn  't  was  May ;  the  blossoms  were  astir 
With  southern  wind  ;  but  now  the  boughs  are  bent 
With  snow  instead  of  birds,  and  all  things  freeze. 
How  much  of  all  my  past  is  dumb  with  her, 
And  of  my  future,  too,  for  with  her  went 
Half  of  that  world  I  ever  cared  to  please  1 


DEATH  OF  QUEEN  MERCEDES 

HEKS  all  that  Earth  could  promise  or  bestow,  — 

Youth,  Beauty,  Love,  a  crown,  the  beckoning  years, 

Lids  never  wet,  unless  with  joyous  tears, 

A  life  remote  from  every  sordid  woe, 

And  by  a  nation's  swelled  to  lordlier  flow. 

What   lurking-place,  thought   we,   for   doubts   or 

fears, 

When,  the  day's  swan,  she  swam  along  the  cheers 
Of  the  Alcala,  five  happy  months  ago  ? 
The  guns  were  shouting  lo  Hymen  then 
That,  on  her  birthday,  now  denounce  her  doom  ; 


TO  A  LADY  PLAYING  ON  THE  CITHERN  187 

The  same  white  steeds  that  tossed  their  scorn  of 

men 

To-day  as  proudly  drag  her  to  the  tomb. 
Grim  jest  of  fate  !     Yet  who  dare  call  it  blind, 
Knowing  what  life  is,  what  our  humankind  ? 


PRISON  OF  CERVANTES 

SEAT  of  all  woes  ?     Though  Nature's  firm  decree 
The  narrowing  soul  with  narrowing  dungeon  bind, 
Yet  was  his  free  of  motion  as  the  wind, 
And  held  both  worlds,  of  spirit  and  sense,  in  fee. 
In  charmed  communion  with  his  dual  mind 
He  wandered  Spain,  himself  both  knight  and  hind, 
Redressing  wrongs  he  knew  must  ever  be, 
His  humor  wise  could  see  life's  long  deceit, 
Man's  baffled  aims,  nor  therefore  both  despise ; 
His  knightly  nature  could  ill  fortune  greet 
Like  an  old  friend.     Whose  ever  such  kind  eyes 
That  pierced  so  deep,  such  scope,  save  his  whose 

feet 
By  Avon  ceased  'neath  the  same  April's  skies  ? 


TO  A  LADY  PLAYING  ON  THE  CITHERN 

So  dreamy-soft  the  notes,  so  far  away 

They  seem  to  fall,  the  horns  of  Oberon 

Blow  their  faint  HuntVup  from  the  good-time  gone ; 

Or,  on  a  morning  of  long-withered  May, 

Larks  tinkle  unseen,  o'er  Claudian  arches  gray, 


188  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

That  Homeward  crawl  from  Dreamland  ;  and  anon 

My  fancy  flings  her  cloak  of  Darkness  on, 

To  vanish  from  the  dungeon  of  To-day. 

In  happier  times  and  scenes  I  seem  to  be, 

And,  as  her  fingers  flutter  o'er  the  strings, 

The  days  return  when  I  was  young  as  she, 

And  my  fledged  thoughts  began  to  feel  their  wings 

With  all  Heaven's  blue  before  them :  Memory 

Or  Music  is  it  such  enchantment  sings  ? 


THE   EYE'S  TREASURY 

GOLD  of  the  reddening  sunset,  backward  thrown 
In  largess  on  my  tall  paternal  trees, 
Thou  with  false  hope  or  fear  didst  never  tease 
His  heart  that  hoards  thee  ;  nor  is  childhood  flown 
From  him  whose  life  no  fairer  boon  hath  known 
Than  that  what  pleased  him  earliest  still  should 

please : 

And  who  hath  incomes  safe  from  chance  as  these, 
Gone  in  a  moment,  yet  for  life  his  own  ? 
All  other  gold  is  slave  of  earthward  laws ; 
This  to  the  deeps  of  ether  takes  its  flight, 
And  on  the  topmost  leaves  makes  glorious  pause 
Of  parting  pathos  ere  it  yield  to  night : 
So  linger,  as  from  me  earth's  light  withdraws, 
Dear  touch  of  Nature,  tremulously  bright ! 


THE  BRAKES  189 


PESSIMOPTIMISM 

YE  little  think  what  toil  it  was  to  build 
A  world  of  men  imperfect  even  as  this, 
Where  we  conceive  of  Good  by  what  we  miss, 
Of  III  by  that  wherewith  best  days  are  filled  ; 
A  world  whose  every  atom  is  self-willed, 
Whose  corner-stone  is  propt  on  artifice, 
Whose  joy  is  shorter-lived  than  woman's  kiss, 
Whose  wisdom  hoarded  is  but  to  be  spilled. 
Yet  this  is  better  than  a  life  of  caves, 
Whose  highest  art  was  scratching  on  a  bone, 
Or  chipping  toilsome  arrowheads  of  flint  ; 
Better,  though  doomed  to  hear  while  Cieon  raves, 
To  see  wit's  want  eterned  in  paint  or  stone, 
And  wade  the  drain-drenched  shoals  of  daily  print. 


THE   BRAKES 

WHAT  countless  years  and  wealth  of  brain  were 

spent 

To  bring  us  hither  from  our  caves  and  huts, 
And  trace  through  pathless  wilds  the  deep-worn 

ruts 

Of  faith  and  habit,  by  whose  deep  indent 
Prudence  may  guide  if  genius  be  not  lent, 
Genius,  not  always  happy  when  it  shuts 
Its  ears  against  the  plodders  ifs  and  buts, 
Hoping  in  one  rash  leap  to  snatch  the  event. 
The  coursers  of  the  sun,  whose  hoofs  of  flame 
Consume  morn's  misty  threshold,  are  exact 


* 
190  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

As  bankers*  clerks,  and  all  this  star-poised  frame, 
One  swerve  allowed,  were  with  convulsion  rackt ; 
This  world  were  doomed,  should  Dulness  fail,  to 

tame 
Wit's  feathered  heels  in  the  stern  stocks  of  fact. 


A  FOREBODING 

WHAT  were  the  whole  Toid  world,  if  then  wcrt 

dead, 

Whose  briefest  absence  can  eclipse  my  day, 
And  make  the  hours  that  danced  with  Time  away 
Drag  their  funereal  steps  with  muffled  head  ? 
Through  thee,  meseems,  the  very  rose  is  red, 
From  thee  the  violet  steals  its  breath  in  May, 
From  thee  draw  life  all  things  that  grow  not  gray, 
And  by  thy  force  the  happy  stars  are  sped. 
Thou  near,  the  hope  of  thee  to  overflow 
Fills  all  my  earth  and  heaven,  as  when  in  Spring, 
Ere  April  come,  the  birds  and  blossoms  know, 
And  grasses  brighten  round  her  feet  to  cling ; 
Nay,  and  this  hope  delights  all  nature  so 
That  the  dumb  turf  I  tread  on  seems  to  sing. 


FANCY 

UNDER  THE   OCTOBER  MAPLES 

WHAT  mean  these  banners  spread. 

These  paths  with  royal  red 

So  gaily  carpeted? 

Comes  there  a  prince  to-day  ? 

Such  footing  were  too  fine 

For  feet  less  argentine 

Than  Dian's  own  or  thine, 

Queen  whom  my  tides  obey. 

Surely  for  thee  are  meant 
These  hues  so  orient 
That  with  a  sultan's  tent 
Each  tree  invites  the  sun ; 
Our  Earth  such  homage  pays, 
So  decks  her  dusty  ways, 
And  keeps  such  holidays, 
For  one,  and  only  one. 

My  brain  shapes  form  and  face, 
Throbs  with  the  rhythmic  grace 
And  cadence  of  her  pace 
To  all  fine  instincts  true ; 


192  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUB 

Her  footsteps,  as  they  pass, 
Than  moonbeams  over  grass 
Fall  lighter,  —  but,  alas, 
More  insubstantial  too  1 


LOVE'S  CLOCK 

A  PASTORAL 

DAPHNIS  waiting. 

"  O  DYKAD  feet, 
Be  doubly  fleet, 

Timed  to  my  heart's  expectant  beat 
While  I  await  her ! 
4  At  four,'  vowed  she  ; 
'T  is  scarcely  three, 
Yet  by  my  time  it  seems  to  be 
A  good  hour  later !  " 

CHLOE. 

"Bid  me  not  stay! 
Hear  reason,  pray ! 
'T  is  striking  six !     Sure  never  day 
Was  short  as  this  is  !  " 

DAPHNIS. 

44  Reason  nor  rhyme 
Is  in  the  chime  ! 

It  can't  be  five ;  I  've  scarce  had  time 
To  beg  two  kisses  !  " 


ELEANOR  MAKES  MACAROONS         193 

BOTH. 

"  Early  or  late, 
When  lovers  wait, 

And  Love's  watch  gains,  if  Time  a  gait 
So  snail-like  chooses, 
Why  should  his  feet 
Become  more  fleet 

Than  cowards'  are,  when  lovers  meet 
And  Love's  watch  loses  ?  " 


ELEANOR  MAKES  MACAROONS 

LIGHT  of  triumph  in  her  eyes, 
Eleanor  her  apron  ties ; 
As  she  pushes  back  her  sleeves, 
High  resolve  her  bosom  heaves. 
Hasten,  cook !  impel  the  fire 
To  the  pace  of  her  desire ; 
As  you  hope  to  save  your  soul, 
Bring  a  virgin  casserole, 
Brightest  bring  of  silver  spoons,  — 
Eleanor  makes  macaroons ! 

Almond-blossoms,  now  adance 
In  the  smile  of  Southern  France, 
Leave  your  sport  with  sun  and  breeze, 
Think  of  duty,  not  of  ease ; 
Fashion,  'neath  their  jerkins  brown, 
Kernels  white  as  thistle-down, 
Tiny  cheeses  made  with  cream 


194  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

From  the  Galaxy's  mid-stream, 
Blanched  in  light  of  honeymoons,  — 
Eleanor  makes  macaroons ! 

Now  for  sugar,  —  nay,  our  plan 
Tolerates  no  work  of  man. 
Hurry,  then,  ye  golden  bees ; 
Fetch  your  clearest  honey,  please, 
Garnered  on  a  Yorkshire  moor, 
While  the  last  larks  sing  and  soar, 
From  the  heather-blossoms  sweet 
Where  sea-breeze  and  sunshine  meet, 
And  the  Augusts  mask  as  Junes,  — 
Eleanor  makes  macaroons ! 

Next  the  pestle  and  mortar  find, 
Pure  rock-crystal,  —  these  to  grind 
Into  paste  more  smooth  than  silk, 
Whiter  than  the  milkweed's  milk  : 
Spread  it  on  a  rose-leaf,  thus, 
Gate  to  please  Theocritus ; 
Then  the  fire  with  spices  swell, 
While,  for  her  completer  spell, 
Mystic  canticles  she  croons,  — 
Eleanor  makes  macaroons ! 

Perfect !  and  all  this  to  waste 
On  a  graybeard's  palsied  taste  ! 
Poets  so  their  verses  write, 
Heap  them  full  of  life  and  light, 
And  then  fling  them  to  the  rude 
Mumbling  of  the  multitude. 


TELEPATHY  195 

Not  so  dire  her  fate  as  theirs, 
Since  her  friend  this  gift  declares 
Choicest  of  his  birthday  boons,  — 
Eleanor's  dear  macaroons ! 
February  22,  1884. 


TELEPATHY 

AND  how  could  you  dream  of  meeting  ?  " 
Nay,  how  can  you  ask  me,  sweet  ? 

All  day  my  pulse  -had  been  beating 
The  tune  of  your  coming  feet. 

And  as  nearer  and  ever  nearer 
I  felt  the  throb  of  your  tread, 

To  be  in  the  world  grew  dearer, 
And  my  blood  ran  rosier  red. 

Love  called,  and  I  could  not  linger^ 
But  sought  the  forbidden  tryst, 

As  music  follows  the  finger 
Of  the  dreaming  lutanist. 

And  though  you  had  said  it  and  said  it, 
"  We  must  not  be  happy  to-day," 

Was  I  not  wiser  to  credit 

The  fire  in  my  feet  than  your  Nay  ? 


196  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 


SCHERZO 

WHEN  the  down  is  on  the  chin 
And  the  gold-gleam  in  the  hair, 
When  the  birds  their  sweethearts  win 
And  champagne  is  in  the  air, 
Love  is  here,  and  Love  is  there, 
Love  is  welcome  everywhere. 

Summer's  cheek  too  soon  turns  thin, 
Days  grow  briefer,  sunshine  rare  ; 
Autumn  from  his  cannekin 
Blows  the  froth  to  chase  Despair : 
Love  is  met  with  frosty  stare, 
Cannot  house  'neath  branches  bane. 

When  new  life  is  in  the  leaf 

And  new  red  is  in  the  rose, 

Though  Love's  Maytime  be  as  brief 

As  a  dragon-fly's  repose, 

Never  moments  come  like  those, 

Be  they  Heaven  or  Hell :  who  knows  ? 

All  too  soon  comes  Winter's  grief, 
Spendthrift  Love's  false  friends  turn  foes ; 
Softly  comes  Old  Age,  the  thief, 
Steals  the  rapture,  leaves  the  throes  : 
Love  his  mantle  round  him  throws,  — 
"  Time  to  say  Good-bye  ;  it  snows." 


"FRANCISCUS  DE   VERULAMIO"        197 


"FRANCISCUS   DE  VERULAMIO  SIC 
COGITAVIT  " 

THAT  's  a  rather  bold  speech,  my  Lord  Bacon, 

For,  indeed,  is  't  so  easy  to  know 
Just  how  much  we  from  others  have  taken, 

And  how  much  our  own  natural  flow? 

Since  your  mind  bubbled  up  at  its-  fountain, 

How  many  streams  made  it  elate, 
While  it  calmed  to  the  plain  from  the  mountain, 

As  every  mind  must  that  grows  great  ? 

While  you  thought  't  was  You  thinking  as  newly 
As  Adam  still  wet  with  God's  dew, 

You  forgot  in  your  self -pride  that  truly 
The  whole  Past  was  thinking  through  you. 

Greece,  Rome,  nay,  your  namesake,  old  Roger, 
With  Truth's  nameless  delvers  who  wrought 

In  the  dark  mines  of  Truth,  helped  to  prod  your 
Fine  brain  with  the  goad  of  their  thought. 

As  mummy  was  prized  for  a  rich  hue 
The  painter  no  elsewhere  could  find, 

So  't  was  buried  men's  thinking  with  which  you 
Gave  the  ripe  mellow  tone  to  your  mind. 

I  heard  the  proud  strawberry  saying, 
"  Only  look  what  a  ruby  I  've  made  !  " 

It  forgot  how  the  bees  in  their  maying 
Had  brought  it  the  stuff  for  its  trade. 


198  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

And  yet  there  's  the  half  of  a  truth  in  it, 
And  my  Lord  might  his  copyright  sue ; 

For  a  thought 's  his  who  kindles  new  youth  in  it, 
Or  so  puts  it  as  makes  it  more  true. 

The  birds  but  repeat  without  ending 

The  same  old  traditional  notes, 
Which  some,  by  more  happily  blending, 

Seem  to  make  over  new  in  their  throats ; 

And  we  men  through  our  old  bit  of  song  run, 
Until  one  just  improves  on  the  rest, 

And  we  call  a  thing  his,  in  the  long  run, 
Who  utters  it  clearest  and  best. 


AUSPEX 

MY  heart,  I  cannot  still  it, 
Nest  that  had  song-birds  in  it; 
And  when  the  last  shall  go, 
The  dreary  days,  to  fill  it, 
Instead  of  lark  or  linnet, 
Shall  whirl  dead  leaves  and  snow. 

Had  they  been  swallows  only, 
Without  the  passion  stronger 
That  skyward  longs  and  sings,  — 
Woe  's  me,  I  shall  be  lonely 
When  I  can  feel  no  longer 
The  impatience  of  their  wings  J 


THE  PREGNANT  COMMENT  199 

A  moment,  sweet  delusion, 
Like  birds  the  brown  leaves  hover ; 
But  it  will  not  be  long 
Before  their  wild  confusion 
Fall  wavering  down  to  cover 
The  poet  and  his  song. 


THE  PREGNANT  COMMENT 

OPENING  one  day  a  book  of  mine, 
I  absent,  Hester  found  a  line 
Praised  with  a  pencil-mark,  and  this 
She  left  transfigured  with  a  kiss. 

When  next  upon  the  page  I  chance, 
Like  Poussin's  nymphs  my  pulses  dance, 
And  whirl  my  fancy  where  it  sees 
Pan  piping  'neath  Arcadian  trees, 
Whose  leaves  no  winter-scenes  rehearse, 
Still  young  and  glad  as  Homer's  verse. 
"  What  mean,"  I  ask,  "these  sudden  joys? 
This  feeling  fresher  than  a  boy's  ?     . 
What  makes  this  line,  familiar  long, 
New  as  the  first  bird's  April  song  ? 
I  could,  with  sense  illumined  thus, 
Clear  doubtful  texts  in  -ZEschylus !  " 

Laughing,  one  day  she  gave  the  key, 
My  riddle's  open-sesame ; 
Then  added,  with  a  smile  demure, 
Whose  downcast  lids  veiled  triumph  sure, 


200  HEARTSEASE  AND  HUE 

"  If  what  I  left  there  give  you  pain, 
You  —  you  —  can  take  it  off  again ; 
'T  was  for  my  poet,  not  for  him, 
Your  Doctor  Donne  there  1  "  . 

Earth  grew  dim 
And  wavered  in  a  golden  mist, 
As  rose,  not  paper,  leaves  I  kissed. 
Donne,  you  forgive  ?     I  let  you  keep 
Her  precious  comment,  poet  deep. 


THE   LESSON 

I  SAT  and  watched  the  walls  of  night 
With  cracks  of  sudden  lightning  glow, 
And  listened  while  with  clumsy  might 
The  thunder  wallowed  to  and  fro. 

The  rain  fell  softly  now  ;  the  squall, 
That  to  a  torrent  drove  the  trees, 
Had  whirled  beyond  us  to  let  fall 
Its  tumult  on  the  whitening  seas. 

But  still  the  lightning  crinkled  keen, 
Or  fluttered  fitful  from  behind 
The  leaden  drifts,  then  only  seen, 
That  rumbled  eastward  on  the  wind. 

Still  as  gloom  followed  after  glare, 
While  bated  breath  the  pine-trees  drew, 
Tiny  Salmoneus  of  the  air, 
His  mimic  bolts  the  firefly  threw. 


SCIENCE  AND  POETRY  201 

He  thought,  no  doubt,  "  Those  flashes  grand, 
That  light  for  leagues  the  shuddering  sky, 
Are  made,  a  fool  could  understand, 
By  some  superior  kind  of  fly. 

He 's  of  our  race's  elder  branch, 
His  family-arms  the  same  as  ours, 
Both  born  the  twy-forked  flame  to  launch, 
Of  kindred,  if  unequal,  powers." 

And  is  man  wiser  ?     Man  who  takes 
His  consciousness  the  law  to  be 
Of  all  beyond  his  ken,  and  makes 
God  but  a  bigger  kind  of  Me  ? 


SCIENCE  AND  POETRY 

HE  who  first  stretched  his  nerves  of  subtile  wire 
Over  the  land  and  through  the  sea-depths  still, 
Thought  only  of  the  flame-winged  messenger 
As  a  dull  drudge  that  should  encircle  earth 
With  sordid  messages  of  Trade,  and  tame 
Blithe  Ariel  to  a  bagman.     But  the  Muse 
Not  long  will  be  defrauded.     From  her  foe 
Her  misused  wand  she  snatches  ;  at  a  touch, 
The  Age  of  Wonder  is  renewed  again, 
And  to  our  disenchanted  day  restores 
The  Shoes  of  Swiftness  that  give  odds  to  Thought, 
The  Cloak  that  makes  invisible ;  and  with  these 
I  glide,  an  airy  fire,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Or  from  my  Cambridge  whisper  to  Cathay. 


202  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 


A  NEW  YEAR'S   GREETING 

THE  century  numbers  fourscore  years ; 
You,  fortressed  in  your  teens, 
To  Time's  alarums  close  your  ears, 
And,  while  he  devastates  your  peers, 
Conceive  not  what  he  means. 

If  e'er  life's  winter  fleck  with  snow 
Your  hair's  deep  shadowed  bowers, 
That  winsome  head  an  art  would  know 
To  make  it  charm,  and  wear  it  so 
As  't  were  a  wreath  of  flowers. 

If  to  such  fairies  years  must  come, 
May  yours  fall  soft  and  slow 
As,  shaken  by  a  bee's  low  hum, 
The  rose-leaves  waver,  sweetly  dumb, 
Down  to  their  mates  below ! 


THE  DISCOVERY 

I  WATCHED  a  moorland  torrent  run 
Down  through  the  rift  itself  had  made, 
Golden  as  honey  in  the  sun, 
Of  darkest  amber  in  the  shade. 

In  this  wild  glen  at  last,  methought, 
The  magic's  secret  I  surprise  ; 
Here  Celia's  guardian  fairy  caught 
The  changeful  splendors  of  her  eyes. 


WITH  A   SEASHELL  203 

All  else  grows  tame,  the  sky's  one  blue, 
The  one  long  languish  of  the  rose, 
But  these,  beyond  prevision  new, 
Shall  charm  and  startle  to  the  close. 


WITH  A   SEASHELL 

SHELL,  whose  lips,  than  mine  more  cold, 

Might  with  Dian's  ear  make  bold, 

Seek  my  Lady's  ;  if  thou  win 

To  that  portal,  shut  from  sin, 

Where  commissioned  angels'  swords 

Startle  back  unholy  words, 

Thou  a  miracle  shalt  see 

Wrought  by  it  and  wrought  in  thee ; 

Thou,  the  dumb  one,  shalt  recover 

Speech  of  poet,  speech  of  lover. 

If  she  deign  to  lift  you  there, 

Murmur  what  I  may  not  dare ; 

In  that  archway,  pearly-pink 

As  the  Dawn's  untrodden  brink, 

Murmur,  "  Excellent  and  good, 

Beauty's  best  in  every  mood, 

Never  common,  never  tame, 

Changeful  fair  as  windwaved  flame  "  — 

Nay,  I  maunder ;  this  she  hears 

Every  day  with  mocking  ears, 

With  a  brow  not  sudden-stained 

With  the  flush  of  bliss  restrained, 

With  no  tremor  of  the  pulse 

More  than  feels  the  dreaming  dulse 


204  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

In  the  midmost  ocean's  caves, 
When  a  tempest  heaps  the  waves. 
Thou  must  woo  her  in  a  phrase 
Mystic  as  the  opal's  blaze, 
Which  pure  maids  alone  can  see 
When  their  lovers  constant  be. 
I  with  thee  a  secret  share, 
Half  a  hope,  and  half  a  prayer, 
Though  no  reach  of  mortal  skill 
Ever  told  it  all,  or  will  ; 
Say,  "  He  bids  me  —  nothing  more 
Tell  you  what  you  guessed  before  ! 


THE   SECRET 

I  HAVE  a  fancy  :  how  shall  I  bring  it 
Home  to  all  mortals  wherever  they  be  ? 
Say  it  or  sing  it  ?     Shoe  it  or  wing  it, 
So  it  may  outrun  or  outfly  ME, 
Merest  cocoon-web  whence  it  broke  free  ? 

Only  one  secret  can  save  from  disaster, 

Only  one  magic  is  that  of  the  Master  : 

Set  it  to  music  ;  give  it  a  tune,  — 

Tune  the  brook  sings  you,  tune  the  breeze  brings 

you, 
Tune  the  wild  columbines  nod  to  in  June  ! 

This  is  the  secret  :  so  simple,  you  see  ! 
Easy  as  loving,  easy  as  kissing, 
Easy  as  —  well,  let  me  ponder  —  as  missing, 
Known,   since  the   world  was,  by  scarce   two   or 
three. 


HUMOR  AND   SATIRE 

FITZ  ADAM'S   STORY 

[The  greater  part  of  this  poem  was  written  many  years  ago  as 
part  of  a  larger  one,  to  be  called  "The  Nooning,"  made  up  of 
tales  in  verse,  some  of  them  grave,  some  comic.  It  gives  me  a 
sad  pleasure  to  remember  that  I  was  encouraged  in  this  project 
by  my  friend  the  late  Arthur  Hugh  Clough.] 

THE  next  whose  fortune  't  was  a  tale  to  tell 

Was  one  whom  men,  before  they  thought,  loved 

well, 

And  after  thinking  wondered  why  they  did, 
For  half  he  seemed  to  let  them,  half  forbid, 
And  wrapped  him  so  in  humors,  sheath  on  sheath, 
'T  was  hard  to  guess  the  mellow  soul  beneath ; 
But,  once  divined,  you  took  him  to  your  heart, 
While  he  appeared  to  bear  with  you  as  part 
Of  life's  impertinence,  and  once  a  year 
Betrayed  his  true  self  by  a  smile  or  tear, 
Or  rather  something  sweetly-shy  and  loath, 
Withdrawn  ere  fully  shown,  and  mixed  of  both. 
A  cynic  ?     Not  precisely :  one  who  thrust 
Against  a  heart  too  prone  to  love  and  trust, 
Who  so  despised  false  sentiment  he  knew 
Scarce  in  himself  to  part  the  false  and  true, 
And  strove  to  hide,  by  rougHening-o'er  the  skin, 
Those  cobweb  nerves  he  could  not  dull  within. 


206  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Gentle  by  birth,  but  of  a  stem  decayed, 

He  shunned  life's  rivalries  and  hated  trade ; 

On  a  small  patrimony  and  larger  pride, 

He  lived  uneaseful  on  the  Other  Side 

(So  he  called  Europe),  only  coming  West 

To  give  his  Old- World  appetite  new  zest ; 

Yet  still  the  New  World  spooked  it  in  his  veins, 

A  ghost  he  could  not  lay  with  all  his  pains  ; 

For  never  Pilgrims'  offshoot  scapes  control 

Of  those  old  instincts  that  have  shaped  his  soul. 

A  radical  in  thought,  he  puffed  away 

With  shrewd  contempt  the  dust -of  usage  gray, 

Yet  loathed  democracy  as  one  who  saw, 

In  what  he  longed  to  love,  some  vulgar  flaw, 

And,  shocked  through  all  his  delicate  reserves, 

Remained  a  Tory  by  his  taste  and  nerves. 

His  fancy's  thrall,  he  drew  all  ergoes  thence, 

And  thought  himself  the  type  of  common  sense  ; 

Misliking  women,  not  from  cross  or  whim, 

But  that  his  mother  shared  too  much  in  him, 

And  he  half  felt  that  what  in  them  was  grace 

Made  the  unlucky  weakness  of  his  race. 

What  powers  he  had  he  hardly  cared  to  know, 

But  sauntered   through   the  world  as   through   a 

show ; 

A  critic  fine  in  his  haphazard  way, 
A  sort  of  mild  La  Bruyere  on  half -pay. 
For  comic  weaknesses  he  had  an  eye 
Keen  as  an  acid  for  an  alkali, 
Yet  you  could  feel,  through  his  sardonic  tone, 
He  loved  them  all,  unless  they  were  his  own. 
You  might  have  called  him,  with   his   humorous 

twist, 


FITZ  ADAM'S  STORY  207 

A  kind  of  human  entomologist : 

As  these  bring  home,  from  every  walk  they  take, 

Their  hat-crowns  stuck  with  bugs  of  curious  make, 

So  he  filled  all  the  lining  of  his  head 

With  characters  impaled  and  ticketed, 

And  had  a  cabinet  behind  his  eyes 

For  all  they  caught  of  mortal  oddities. 

He  might  have  been  a  poet  —  many  worse  — 

But  that  he  had,  or  feigned,  contempt  of  verse  ; 

Called  it  tattooing  language,  and  held  rhymes 

The  young  world's  lullaby  of  ruder  times. 

Bitter  in  words,  too  indolent  for  gall, 

He  satirized  himself  the  first  of  all, 

In  men  and  their  affairs  could  find  no  law, 

And  was  the  ill  logic  that  he  thought  he  saw. 

Scratching  a  match  to  light  his  pipe  anew, 
With  eyes  half  shut  some  musing  whiffs  he  drew, 
And  thus  began  :  "  I  give  you  all  my  word, 
I  think  this  mock-Decameron  absurd  ; 
Boccaccio's  garden  !  how  bring  that  to  pass 
In  our  bleak  clime  save  under  double  glass  ? 
The  moral  east-wind  of  New  England  life 
Would  snip  its  gay  luxuriance  like  a  knife ; 
Mile-deep  the  glaciers  brooded  here,  they  say, 
Through  a3ons  numb  ;  we  feel  their  chill  to-day. 
These  foreign  plants  are  but  half-hardy  still, 
Die  on  a  south,  and  on  a  north  wall  chill. 
Had  we  stayed  Puritans  !     They  had  some  heat, 
(Though  whence  derived  I  have  my  own  conceit,) 
But  you  have  long  ago  raked  up  their  fires  ; 
Where  they  had   faith,  you  've  ten   sham-Gothic 
spires. 


208  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Why  more  exotics  ?     Try  your  native  vines, 
And  in  some  thousand  years  you  may  have  wines ; 
Your  present  grapes  are  harsh,  all  pulps  and  skins, 
And  want  traditions  of  ancestral  bins 
That  saved  for  evenings  round  the  polished  board 
Old  lava-fires,  the  sun-steeped  hillside's  hoard. 
Without  a  Past,  you  lack  that  southern  wall 
O'er  which  the  vines  of  Poesy  should  crawl ; 
Still  they  're  your  only  hope  ;  no  midnight  oil 
Makes  up  for  virtue  wanting  in  the  soil ; 
Manure  them  well  and  prune  them ;  't  won't  be 

France, 

Nor  Spain,  nor  Italy,  but  there  's  your  chance. 
You  have  one  story-teller  worth  a  score 
Of  dead  Boccaccios,  —  nay?  add  twenty  more,  — 
A  hawthorn  asking  spring's  most  dainty  breath, 
And  him  you  're  freezing  pretty  well  to  death. 
However,  since  you  say  so,  I  will  tease 
My  memory  to  a  story  by  degrees, 
Though  you  will  cry, 4  Enough  ! '  I  'm  wellnigh  sure, 
Ere  I  have  dreamed  through  half  my  overture. 
Stories  were  good  for  men  who  had  no  books, 
(Fortunate  race  !)  and  built  their  nests  like  rooks 
In  lonely  towers,  to  which  the  Jongleur  brought 
His  pedler's-box  of  cheap  and  tawdry  thought, 
With  here  and  there  a  fancy  fit  to  see 
Wrought  to  quaint  grace  in  golden  filigree,  — • 
Some  ring  that  with  the  Muse's  finger  yet 
Is  warm,  like  Aucassin  and  Nicolete  ; 
The  morning  newspaper  has  spoilt  his  trade, 
(For  better  or  for  worse,  I  leave  unsaid,) 
And  stories  now,  to  suit  a  public  nice, 
Must  be  half  epigram,  half  pleasant  vice. 


FITZ  ADAM'S  STORY  209 

"  All  tourists  know  Shebagog  County  :  there 
The  summer  idlers  take  their  yearly  stare, 
Dress  to  see  Nature  in  a  well-bred  way, 
As  't  were  Italian  opera,  or  play, 
Encore  the  sunrise  (if  they  're  out  of  bed), 
And  pat  the  Mighty  Mother  on  the  head  : 
These  have  I  seen,  —  all  things  are  good  to  see,  — 
And  wondered  much  at  their  complacency. 
This  world's  great  show,  that  took  in  getting-up 
Millions  of  years,  they  finish  ere  they  sup  ; 
Sights  that  God  gleams  through  with  soul-tingling 

force 

They  glance  approvingly  as  things  of  course, 
Say,  '  That 's  a  grand  rock,'  4  This  a  pretty  fall,' 
Not  thinking,  4  Are  we  worthy  ? '     What  if  all 
The  scornful  landscape  should  turn  round  and  say, 
4  This  is  a  fool,  and  that  a  popinjay  '  ? 
I  often  wonder  what  the  Mountain  thinks 
Of  French  boots  creaking  o'er  his  breathless  brinks, 
Or  how  the  Sun  would  scare  the  chattering  crowd, 
If  some  fine  day  he  chanced  to  think  aloud. 
I,  who  love  Nature  much  as  sinners  can, 
Love  her  where  she   most    grandeur  shows,  —  in 

man: 

Here  find  I  mountain,  forest,  cloud,  and  sun, 
River  and  sea,  and  glows  when  day  is  done ; 
Nay,  where  she  makes  grotesques,  and  moulds  in 

jest 

The  clown's  cheap  clay,  I  find  unfading  zest. 
The  natural  instincts  year  by  year  retire, 
As  deer  shrink  northward  from  the  settler's  fire, 
And  he  who  loves  the  wild  game-flavor  more 


210  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Than  city-feasts,  where  every  man 's  a  bore 
To  every  other  man,  must  seek  it  where 
The  steamer's  throb  and  railway's  iron  blare 
Have  not  yet  startled  with  their  punctual  stir 
The  shy,  wood-wandering  brood  of  Character. 

"  There  is  a  village,  once  the  county  town, 
Through  which  the  weekly  mail  rolled  dustily  down, 
Where  the  courts  sat,  it  may  be,  twice  a  year, 
And  the  one  tavern  reeked  with  rustic  cheer ; 
Cheeshogquesumscot  erst,  now  Jethro  hight, 
Ked-man  and  pale-face  bore  it  equal  spite. 
The  railway  ruined  it,  the  natives  say, 
That  passed  unwisely  fifteen  miles  away, 
And  made  a  drain  to  which,  with  steady  ooze, 
Filtered  away  law,  stage-coach,  trade,  and  news. 
The  railway  saved  it ;  so  at  least  think  those 
Who  love  old  ways,  old  houses,  old  repose. 
Of  course  the  Tavern  stayed  :  its  genial  host 
Thought  not  of  flitting  more  than  did  the  post 
On  which  high-hung  the  fading  signboard  creaks, 
Inscribed,  4  The  Eagle  Inn,  by  Ezra  Weeks.' 

44  If  in  life's  journey  you  should  ever  find 
An  inn  medicinal  for  body  and  mind, 
fT  is  sure  to  be  some  drowsy-looking  house 
Whose  easy  landlord  has  a  bustling  spouse  : 
He,  if  he  like  you,  will  not  long  forego 
Some  bottle  deep  in  cobwebbed  dust  laid  low, 
That,  since  the  War  we  used  to  call  the  4  Last,' 
Has  dozed  and  held  its  lang-syne  memories  fast ; 
From  him  exhales  that  Indian -summer  air 


FITZ  ADAMS   STORY  211 

Of  hazy,  lazy  welcome  everywhere, 

While  with  her  toil  the  napery  is  white, 

The  china  dustless,  the  keen  knife-blades  bright, 

Salt  dry  as  sand,  and  bread  that  seems  as  though 

'T  were  rather  sea-foam  baked  than  vulgar  dough. 

"  In  our  swift  country,  houses  trim  and  white 
Are  pitched  like  tents,  the  lodging  of  a  night ; 
Each  on  its  bank  of  baked  turf  mounted  high 
Perches  impatient  o'er  the  roadside  dry, 
While  the  wronged  landscape  coldly  stands  aloof, 
Refusing  friendship  with  the  upstart  roof. 
Not  so  the  Eagle  ;  on  a  grass-green  swell 
That  toward  the  south  with  sweet  concessions  fell 
It  dwelt  retired,  and  half  had  grown  to  be 
As  aboriginal  as  rock  or  tree, 
It  nestled  close  to  earth,  and  seemed  to  brood 
O'er  homely  thoughts  in  a  half-conscious  mood, 
As  by  the  peat  that  rather  fades  than  burns 
The  smouldering  grandam  nods  and  knits  by  turns5 
Happy,  although  her  newest  news  were  old 
Ere  the  first  hostile  drum  at  Concord  rolled. 
If  paint  it  e'er  had  known,  it  knew  no  more 
Than  yellow  lichens  spattered  thickly  o'er 
That  soft  lead-gray,  less  dark  beneath  the  eaves 
Which  the  slow  brush  of  wind  and  weather  leaves. 
The  ample  roof  sloped  backward  to  the  ground, 
And  vassal  lean-tos  gathered  thickly  round, 
Patched  on,  as  sire  or  son  had  felt  the  need, 
Like  chance  growths  sprouting  from  the  old  roof's 

seed, 
Just  as  about  a  yellow-pine-tree  spring 


212  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Its  rongh-barked  darlings  in  a  filial  ring. 
But  the  great  chimney  was  the  central  thought 
Whose  gravitation  through  the  cluster  wrought ; 
For   't  is  not  styles  far-fetched   from    Greece   or 

Rome, 

But  just  the  Fireside,  that  can  make  a  home  ; 
None  of  your  spindling  things  of  modern  style, 
Like  pins  stuck  through  to  stay  the  card-built  pile, 
It  rose  broad-shouldered,  kindly,  debonair, 
Its  warm  breath  whitening  in  the  October  air, 
While  on  its  front  a  heart  in  outline  showed 
The  place  it  rilled  in  that  serene  abode. 

"  When  first  I  chanced  the  Eagle  to  explore, 
Ezra  sat  listless  by  the  open  door ; 
One  chair  careened  him  at  an  angle  meet, 
Another  nursed  his  hugely-slippered  feet ; 
Upon  a  third  reposed  a  shirt-sleeved  arm, 
And  the  whole  man  diffused  tobacco's  charm, 
'  Are  you  the  landlord  ? '     4  Walil,  I  guess  I  be,' 
Watching  the  smoke,  he  answered  leisurely. 
He  was  a  stoutish  man,  and  through  the  breast 
Of  his  loose  shirt  there  showed  a  brambly  chest ; 
Streaked  redly  as  a  wind-foreboding  morn, 
His  tanned  cheeks  curved  to  temples  closely  shorn  ; 
Clean-shaved  he  was,  save  where  a  hedge  of  gray 
Upon  his  brawny  throat  leaned  every  way 
About  an  Adam's-apple,  that  beneath 
Bulged  like  a  boulder  from  a  brambly  heath. 
The  Western  World's  true  child  and  nursling  he, 
Equipt  with  aptitudes  enough  for  three : 
No  eye  like  his  to  value  horse  or  cow, 


FITZ  ADAM'S  STORY  213 

Or  gauge  the  contents  of  a  stack  or  mow ; 
He  could  foretell  the'  weather  at  a  word, 
He  knew  the  haunt  of  every  beast  and  bird, 
Or  where  a  two-pound  trout  was  sure  to  lie, 
Waiting  the  flutter  of  his  home-made  fly  ; 
Nay,  once  in  autumns  five,  he  had  the  luck 
To  drop  at  fair-play  range  a  ten-tined  buck ; 
Of  sportsmen  true  he  favored  every  whim, 
But  never  cockney  found  a  guide  in  him ; 
A  natural  man,  with  all  his  instincts  fresh, 
Not  buzzing  helpless  in  Reflection's  mesh, 
Firm  on  its  feet  stood  his  broad-shouldered  mind, 
As  bluffly  honest  as  a  northwest  wind  ; 
Hard-headed  and  soft-hearted,  you  'd  scarce  meet 
A  kindlie,r  mixture  of  the  shrewd  and  sweet ; 
Generous  by  birth,  and  ill  at  saying  *  No,' 
Yet  in  a  bargain  he  was  all  men's  foe, 
Would  yield  no  inch  of  vantage  in  a  trade, 
And  give  away  ere  nightfall  all  he  made. 

"  *  Can  I  have  lodging  here  ? '  once  more  I  said. 
He  blew  a  whiff,  and,  leaning  back  his  head, 
'  You  come  a  piece  through  Bailey's  woods,  I  s'pose, 
Acrost  a  bridge  where  a  big  swamp-oak  grows  ? 
It  don't  grow,  neither ;  it 's  ben  dead  ten  year, 
Nor  th'  ain't  a  livin'  creetur,  fur  nor  near, 
Can  tell  wut  killed  it ;  but  I  some  misdoubt 
'T  was  borers,  there 's  sech  heaps  on  'em  about. 
You  did  n*  chance  to  run  ag'inst  my  son, 
A  long,  slab-sided  youngster  with  a  gun  ? 
He  'd  oughto  ben  back  more  'n  an  hour  ago, 
An'  brought  some  birds  to  dress  for  supper  —  sho ! 


214  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

There  he  comes  now.     'Say,  Obed,  wut  ye  got? 

(He  '11  hev  some  upland  plover  like  as  not.) 

Wai,  them  's  real  nice  uns,  a^n  '11  eat  A  1, 

Ef  I  can  stop  their  bein'  over-done ; 

Nothin'  riles  me  (I  pledge  my  fastin'  word) 

Like  cookin'  out  the  natur'  of  a  bird  ; 

(Obed,  you  pick  'em  out  o'  sight  an'  sound, 

Your  ma'am  don't  love  no  feathers  cluttrin'  round  ;) 

Jes'  scare  'em  with  the  coals,  —  thet  's  my  idee.' 

Then,  turning  suddenly  about  on  me, 

4  Wai,  Square,  I  guess  so.     Callilate  to  stay  ? 

I  '11  ask  Mis'  Weeks ;  'bout  thet  it 's  hern  to  say.' 

"  Well,  there  I  lingered  all  October  through, 
In  that  sweet  atmosphere  of  hazy  blue, 
So  leisurely,  so  soothing,  so  forgiving, 
That  sometimes  makes  New  England  fit  for  living. 
I  watched  the  landscape,  erst  so  granite  glum, 
Bloom  like  the  south  side  of  a  ripening  plum, 
And  each  rock-maple  on  the  hillside  make 
His  ten  days'  sunset  doubled  in  the  lake  ; 
The  very  stone  walls  draggling  up  the  hills 
Seemed  touched,  and  wavered  in  their  roundhead 

wills. 

Ah !  there  's  a  deal  of  sugar  in  the  sun  I 
Tap  me  in  Indian  summer,  I  should  run 
A  juice  to  make  rock-candy  of,  —  but  then 
We  get  such  weather  scarce  one  year  in  ten. 

"  There  was  a  parlor  in  the  house,  a  room 
To  make  you  shudder  with  its  prudish  gloom. 
The  furniture  stood  round  with  such  an  air, 


FITZ  ADAM'S  STORY  215 

There  seemed  an  old  maid's  ghost  in  every  chair, 
Which  looked  as  it  had  scuttled  to  its  place 
And  pulled  extempore  a  Sunday  face, 
Too  smugly  proper  for  a  world  of  sin, 
Like  boys  on  whom  the  minister  comes  in. 
The  table,  fronting  you  with  icy  stare, 
Strove  to  look  witless  that  its  legs  were  bare, 
While  the  black  sofa  with  its  horse-hair  pall 
Gloomed  like  a  bier  for  Comfort's  funeral. 
Each  piece  appeared  to  do  its  chilly  best 
To  seem  an  utter  stranger  to  the  rest, 
As  if  acquaintanceship  were  deadly  sin, 
Like  Britons  meeting  in  a  foreign  inn. 
Two  portraits  graced  the  wall  in  grimmest  truth, 
Mister  and  Mistress  W.  in  their  youth,  — 
New  England  youth,  that  seems  a  sort  of  pill, 
Half  wish-I-dared,  half  Edwards  on  the  Will, 
Bitter  to  swallow,  and  which  leaves  a  trace 
Of  Calvin istic  colic  on  the  face. 
Between  them,  o'er  the  mantel,  hung  in  state 
Solomon's  temple,  done  in  copperplate ; 
Invention  pure,  but  meant,  we  may  presume, 
To  give  some  Scripture  sanction  to  the  room. 
Facing  this  last,  two  samplers  you  might  see, 
Each,  with  its  urn  and  stiffly-weeping  tree, 
Devoted  to  some  memory  long  ago 
'More  faded  than  their  lines  of  worsted  woe ; 
Cut  paper  decked  their  frames  against  the  flies, 
Though   none  e'er   dared  an  entrance  who  were 

wise, 

And  bushed  asparagus  in  fading  green 
Added  its  shiver  to  the  franklin  clean. 


216  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

"  When  first  arrived,  I  chilled  a  half -hour  there, 
Nor  dared  deflower  with  use  a  single  chair ; 
I  caught  no  cold,  yet  flying  pains  could  find 
For  weeks  in  me,  —  a  rheumatism  of  mind. 
One  thing  alone  imprisoned  there  had  power 
To  hold  me  in  the  place  that  long  half -hour : 
A  scutcheon  this,  a  helm-surmounted  shield, 
Three  griffins  argent  on  a  sable  field  ; 
A  relic  of  the  shipwrecked  past  was  here, 
And  Ezra  held  some  Old-World  lumber  dear. 
Nay,  do  not  smile ;  I  love  this  kind  of  thing, 
These  cooped  traditions  with  a  broken  wing, 
This  freehold  nook  in  Fancy's  pipe-blown  ball, 
This  less  than  nothing  that  is  more  than  all ! 
Have  I  not  seen  sweet  natures  kept  alive 
Amid  the  humdrum  of  your  business  hive, 
Undowered  spinsters  shielded  from  all  harms, 
By  airy  incomes  from  a  coat  of  arms  ?  " 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  his  features  took 
The  flitting  sweetness  of  that  inward  look 
I  hinted  at  before  ;  but,  scarcely  seen, 
It  shrank  for  shelter  'neath  his  harder  mien, 
And,  rapping  his  black  pipe  of  ashes  clear, 
He  went  on  with  a  self -derisive  sneer  : 
"  No  doubt  we  make  a  part  of  God's  design, 
And  break  the  forest-path  for  feet  divine ; 
To  furnish  foothold  for  this  grand  prevision 
Is  good,  and  yet  —  to  be  the  mere  transition, 
That,  you  will  say,  is  also  good,  though  I 
Scarce  like  to  feed  the  ogre  By-and-by. 
Raw  edges  rasp  my  nerves ;  my  taste  is  wooed 


FITZ  ADAM'S  STORY  217 

By  things  that  are,  not  going  to  be,  good, 
Though  were  I  what  I  dreamed  two  lustres  gone. 
I  'd  stay  to  help  the  Consummation  on, 
Whether  a  new  Rome  than  the  old  more  fair, 
Or  a  dead  flat  of  rascal-ruled  despair  ; 
But  my  skull  somehow  never  closed  the  suture 
That  seems  to  knit  yours  firmly  with  the  future, 
So  you  '11  excuse  me  if  I  'm  sometimes  fain 
To  tie  the  Past's  warm  nightcap  o'er  my  brain ; 
I  'm  quite  aware  't  is  not  in  fashion  here, 
But  then  your  northeast  winds  are  so  severe ! 

"  But  to  my  story :  though  't  is  truly  naught 
But  a  few  hints  in  Memory's  sketchbook  caught, 
And  which  may  claim  a  value  on  the  score 
Of  calling  back  some  scenery  now  no  more. 
Shall  I  confess  ?     The  tavern's  only  Lar 
Seemed  (be  not  shocked !)  its  homely-featured  bar. 
Here  dozed  a  fire  of  beechen  logs,  that  bred 
Strange  fancies  in  its  embers  golden-red, 
And  nursed  the  loggerhead  whose  hissing  dip, 
Timed  by  nice  instinct,  creamed  the  mug  of  flip 
That  made  from  mouth  to  mouth  its  genial  round, 
Nor  left  one  nature  wholly  winter-bound ; 
Hence  dropt  the  tinkling  coal  all  mellow-ripe 
For  Uncle  Reuben's  talk-extinguished  pipe; 
Hence  rayed  the  heat,  as  from  an  indoor  sun, 
That  wooed  forth  many  a  shoot  of  rustic  fun. 
Here  Ezra  ruled  as  king  by  right  divine ; 
No  other  face  had  such  a  wholesome  shine, 
No  laugh  like  his  so  full  of  honest  cheer ; 
Above  the  rest  it  crowed  like  Chanticleer. 


•218  HEARTSEASE  AND   RUE 

"  In  this  one  room  his  dame  you  never  saw, 
"Where  reigned  by  custom  old  a  Salic  law ; 
Here  coatless  lolled  he  011  his  throne  of  oak, 
And  every  tongue  paused  midway  if  he  spoke. 
Due  mirth  he  loved,  yet  was  his  sway  severe ; 
No  blear-eyed  driveller  got  his  stagger  here ; 
'  Measure  was  happiness ;  who  wanted  more, 
Must  buy  his  ruin  at  the  Deacon's  store  ; ' 
None  but  his  lodgers  after  ten  could  stay, 
Nor  after  nine  on  eves  of  Sabbath-day. 
He  had  his  favorites  and  his  pensioners, 
The  same  that  gypsy  Nature  owns  for  hers : 
Loose-ended  souls,  whose  skills  bring  scanty  gold, 
And  whom  the  poor-house  catches  when  they  're  old  ; 
Rude  country-minstrels,  men  who  doctor  kine, 
Or  graft,  and,  out  of  scions  ten,  save  nine ; 
Creatures  of  genius  they,  but  never  meant 
To  keep  step  with  the  civic  regiment. 
These  Ezra  welcomed,  feeling  in  his  mind 
Perhaps  some  motions  of  the  vagrant  kind ; 
These  paid  no  money,  yet  for  them  he  drew 
Special  Jamaica  from  a  tap  they  knew, 
And,  for  their  feelings,  chalked  behind  the  door 
With  solemn  face  a  visionary  score. 
This  thawed  to  life  in  Uncle  Reuben's  throat 
A  torpid  shoal  of  jest  and  anecdote, 
Like  those  queer  fish  that  doze  the  droughts  away, 
And  wait  for  moisture,  wrapt  in  sun-baked  clay  ; 
This  warmed  the  one-eyed  fiddler  to  his  task, 
Perched  in  the  corner  on  an  empty  cask, 
By  whose  shrill  art  rapt  suddenly,  some  boor 
Rattled  a  double-shuffle  on  the  floor ; 


FITZ  ADAM'S   STORY  219 

4  Hull's  Victory  '  was,  indeed,  the  favorite  air, 
Though  '  Yankee  Doodle  '  claimed  its  proper  share. 

"  'T  was  there  I  caught  from  Uncle  Keuben's  lips, 
In  dribbling  monologue  'twixt  whiffs  and  sips, 
The  story  I  so  long  have  tried  to  tell ; 
The  humor  coarse,  the  persons  common,  —  well, 
From  Nature  only  do  I  love  to  paint, 
Whether  she  send  a  satyr  or  a  saint ; 
To  me  Sincerity  's  the  one  thing  good, 
Soiled  though  she  be  and  lost  to  maidenhood. 
Quompegan  is  a  town  some  ten  miles  south 
From  Jethro,  at  Nagumscot  river-mouth, 
A  seaport  town,  and  makes  its  title  good 
With  lumber  and  dried  fish  and  eastern  wood. 
Here  Deacon  Bitters  dwelt  and  kept  the  Store, 
The  richest  man  for  many  a  mile  of  shore ; 
In  little  less  than  everything  dealt  he, 
From  meeting-houses  to  a  chest  of  tea  ; 
So  dextrous  therewithal  a  flint  to  skin, 
He  could  make  profit  on  a  single  pin ; 
In  business  strict,  to  bring  the  balance  true 
He  had  been  known  to  bite  a  fig  in  two, 
And  change  a  board-nail  for  a  shingle-nail. 
All  that  he  had  he  ready  held  for  sale, 
His  house,  his  tomb,  whatever  the  law  allows, 
And  he  had  gladly  parted  with  his  spouse. 
His  one  ambition  still  to  get  and  get, 
He  would  arrest  your  very  ghost  for  debt. 
His   store   looked   righteous,   should    the   Parson 

come, 
But  in  a  dark  back-room  he  peddled  rum, 


220  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

And  eased  Ma'am  Conscience,  i£  she  e'er  would 

scold, 

By  christening  it  with  water  ere  he  sold. 
A  small,  dry  man  he  was,  who  wore  a  queue, 
And    one   white    neckcloth   all    the   week  -  days 

through,  — 

On  Monday  white,  by  Saturday  as  dun 
As  that  worn  homeward  by  the  prodigal  son. 
His  frosted  earlocks,  striped  with  foxy  brown, 
Were  braided  up  to  hide  a  desert  crown  ; 
His  coat  was  brownish,  black  perhaps  of  yore  ; 
In  summer-time  a  banyan  loose  he  wore  ; 
His  trousers  short,  through  many  a  season  true, 
Made  no  pretence  to  hide  his  stockings  blue ; 
A  waistcoat  buff  his  chief  adornment  was, 
Its  porcelain  buttons. rimmed  with  dusky  brass. 
A  deacon  he,  you  saw  it  in  each  limb, 
And  well  he  knew  to  deacon-off  a  hymn, 
Or  lead  the  choir  through  all  its  wandering  woes 
With  voice  that  gathered  unction  in  his  nose, 
Wherein  a  constant  snuffle  you  might  hear, 
As  if  with  him  't  were  winter  all  the  year. 
At  pew-head  sat  he  with  decorous  pains, 
In  sermon-time  could  foot  his  weekly  gains, 
Or,  with  closed  eyes  and  heaven-abstracted  air, 
Could  plan  a  new  investment  in  long-prayer. 
A  pious  man,  and  thrifty  too,  he  made 
The  psalms  and  prophets  partners  in  his  trade, 
And  in  his  orthodoxy  straitened  more 
As  it  enlarged  the  business  at  his  store  ; 
He  honored  Moses,  but,  when  gain  he  planned, 
Had  his  own  notion  of  the  Promised  Land. 


FITZ  ADAM'S   STORY  221 

"  Soon  as  the  winter  made  the  sledding  good, 
From  far  around  the  farmers  hauled  him  wood, 
For  all  the  trade  had  gathered  'neath  his  thumb. 
He  paid  in  groceries  and  New  England  rum, 
Making  two  profits  with  a  conscience  clear,  — • 
Cheap  all  he  bought,  and  all  he  paid  with  dear. 
With  his  own  mete-wand  measuring  every  load, 
Each  somehow  had  diminished  on  the  road  ; 
An  honest  cord  in  Jethro  still  would  fail 
By  a  good  foot  upon  the  Deacon's  scale, 
And,  more  to  abate  the  price,  his  gimlet  eye 
Would  pierce  to  cat-sticks  that  none  else  could  spy  r 
Yet  none  dared  grumble,  for  no  farmer  yet 
But  New  Year  found  him  in  the  Deacon's  debt. 

"  While  the  first  snow  was  mealy  under  feet, 
A  team  drawled  creaking  down  Quompegan  street. 
Two  cords  of  oak  weighed  down  the  grinding  sled, 
And  cornstalk  fodder  rustled  overhead  ; 
The  oxen's  muzzles,  as  they  shouldered  through, 
Were  silver-fringed ;  the  driver's  own  was  blue 
As  the  coarse  frock  that  swung  below  his  knee. 
Behind  his  load  for  shelter  waded  he ; 
His  mittened  hands  now  on  his  chest  he  beat, 
Now  stamped  the  stiffened  cowhides  of  his  feet, 
Hushed  as  a  ghost's  ;  his  armpit  scarce  could  hold 
The  walnut  whipstock  slippery-bright  with  cold. 
What  wonder  if,  the  tavern  as  he  past, 
He  looked  and  longed,  and  stayed  his  beasts  at 

last, 

Who  patient  stood  and  veiled  themselves  in  steam 
While  he  explored  the  bar-room's  ruddy  gleam  ? 


222  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

"  Before  the  fire,  in  want  of  thought  profound, 
There  sat  a  brother-townsman  weather-bound : 
A  sturdy  churl,  crisp-headed,  bristly^eared, 
Red  as  a  pepper ;  'twixt  coarse  brows  and  beard 
His  eyes  lay  ambushed,  on  the  watch  for  fools, 
Clear,   gray,    and   glittering    like   two    bay-edged 

pools  ; 

A  shifty  creature,  with  a  turn  for  fun, 
Could  swap  a  poor  horse  for  a  better  one,  — 
He  'd  a  high-stepper  always  in  his  stall ; 
Liked  far  and  near,  and  dreaded  therewithal. 
To  him  the  in-comer,  4  Perez,  how  d'  ye  do  ? ' 
'  Jest  as  I  'm  mind  to,  Obed  ;  how  do  you  ? ' 
Then,  his  eyes  twinkling  such  swift  gleams  as  run 
Along  the  levelled  barrel  of  a  gun 
Brought  to  his  shoulder  by  a  man  you  know 
Will  bring  his  game  down,  he  continued,  4  So, 
I  s'pose  you  're  haulin'  wood  ?    But  you  're  too  late ; 
The  Deacon  's  off ;  Old  Splitfoot  could  n't  wait ; 
He  made  a  bee-line  las'  night  in  the  storm 
To  where  he  won't  need  wood  to  keep  him  warm. 
'Fore  this  he  's  treasurer  of  a  fund  to  train 
Young  imps  as  missionaries  ;  hopes  to  gain 
That  way  a  contract  that  he  has  in  view 
For  fireproof  pitchforks  of  a  pattern  new. 
It  must  have  tickled  him,  all  drawbacks  weighed, 
To  think  he  stuck  the  Old  One  in  a  trade ; 
His  soul,  to  start  with,  was  n't  worth  a  carrot, 
And  all  he  'd  left  'ould  hardly  serve  to  swear  at.' 

"  By  this  time  Obed  had  his  wits  thawed  out, 
And,  looking  at  the  other  half  in  doubt, 


FITZ  ADAM'S  STORY  223 

Took  off  his  fox-skin  cap  to  scratch  his  head, 
Donned  it  again,  and  drawled  forth,  '  Mean  he  7s 

dead?' 

'  Jesso  ;  he 's  dead  and  t'  other  d  that  f oilers 
With  folks  that  never  love  a  thing  but  dollars. 
He  pulled  up  stakes  last  evening,  fair  and  square, 
And  ever  since  there  's  been  a  row  Down  There. 
The  minute  the  old  chap  arrived,  you  see, 
Comes  the  Boss-devil  to  him,  and  says  he, 
"  What  are  you  good  at  ?     Little  enough,  I  fear  ; 
We  callilate  to  make  folks  useful  here." 
"  Well,"  says  old  Bitters,  "  I  expect  I  can 
Scale  a  fair  load  of  wood  with  e'er  a  man." 
"  Wood  we  don't  deal  in  ;  but  perhaps  you  '11  suit, 
Because  we  buy  our  brimstone  by  the  foot : 
Here,  take  this  measurin'-rod,  as  smooth  as  sin, 
And  keep  a  reckonin'  of  what  loads  comes  in. 
You  '11  not  want  business,  for  we  need  a  lot 
To  keep  the  Yankees  that  you  send  us  hot ; 
At  firm'  up  they  're  barely  half  as  spry 
As  Spaniards  or  Italians,  though  they  're  dry ; 
At  first  we  have  to  let  the  draught  on  stronger, 
But,  heat  'em  through,  they  seem  to  hold  it  longer." 

"  '  Bitters  he  took  the  rod,  and  pretty  soon 
A  teamster  comes,  whistling  an  ex-psalm  tune. 
A  likelier  chap  you  would  n't  ask  to  see, 
No  different,  but  his  limp,,  from  you  or  me  '  — 
4  No  different,  Perez  !     Don't  your  memory  fail  ? 
Why,  where  in  thunder  was  his  horns  and  tail  ?  ' 
'  They  're  only  worn  by  some  old-fashioned  pokes  ; 
They  mostly  aim  at  looking  just  like  folks. 


224  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Sech  things  are   scarce  as  queues  and   top-boots 

here  ; 

'T  would  spoil  their  usefulness  to  look  too  queer. 
Ef  you  could  always  know  'em  when  they  come, 
They  'd  get  no  purchase  on  you :  now  be  mum. 
On  come  the  teamster,  smart  as  Davy  Crockett, 
Jinglin'  the  red-hot  coppers  in  his  pocket, 
And   clost   behind,    ('t  was  gold-dust,  you'd  ha' 

sworn,) 

A  load  of  sulphur  yallower  'n  seed-corn  ; 
To  see  it  wasted  as  it  is  Down  There 
Would  make  a  Friction-Match  Co.  tear  its  hair  ! 
"  Hold  on  !  "  says  Bitters,  "  stop  right  where  you 

be ; 

You  can't  go  in  athout  a  pass  from  me." 
"  All  right,"  says  t'  other,  "  only  step  round  smart ; 
I  must  be  home  by  noon-time  with  the  cart." 
Bitters  goes  round  it  sharp-eyed  as  a  rat, 
Then  with  a  scrap  of  paper  on  his  hat 
Pretends  to  cipher.     "  By  the  public  staff, 
That  load  scarce  rises  twelve  foot  and  a  half." 
"  There  's  fourteen  foot  and  over,"  says  the  driver, 
"  Worth  twenty  dollars,  ef  it 's  worth  a  stiver  ; 
Good   fourth-proof   brimstone,    that  '11   make   'em 

squirm,  — 

I  leave  it  to  the  Headman  of  the  Firm ; 
After  we  masure  it,  we  always  lay 
Some  on  to  allow  for  settlin'  by  the  way. 
Imp  and  full-grown,  I  've  carted  sulphur  here, 
And  gi'n  fair  satisfaction,  thirty  year." 
With  that  they  fell  to  quarrellin'  so  loud 
That  in  five  minutes  they  had  drawed  a  crowd, 


F1TZ  ADAM'S  STORY  225 

And  afore  long  the  Boss,  who  heard  the  row, 
Comes  elbowin'  in  with  "  What 's  to  pay  here  now?  " 
Both  parties  heard,  the  measurin'-rod  he  takes, 
And  of  the  load  a  careful  survey  makes. 
"  Sence  I  have  bossed  the  business  here,"  says  he, 
"  No  fairer  load  was  ever  seen  by  me." 
Then,  turnin'  to  the  Deacon,  "  You  mean  cus, 
None  of  your  old  Quoinpegan  tricks  with  us ! 
They  won't   do   here :    we  're   plain  old-fashioned 

folks, 

And  don't  quite  understand  that  kind  o'  jokes. 
I  know  this  teamster,  and  his  pa  afore  him, 
And  the  hard-working  Mrs.  D.  that  bore  him ; 
He  would  n't  soil  his  conscience  with  a  lie, 
Though  he  might  get  the  custom-house  thereby. 
Here,  constable,  take  Bitters  by  the  queue, 
And  clap  him  into  furnace  ninety-two, 
And  try  this  brimstone  on  him ;  if  he  's  bright9 
He  '11  find  the  masure  honest  afore  night. 
He  is  n't  worth  his  fuel,  and  I  '11  bet 
The  parish  oven  has  to  take  him  yet !  " 

"  This  is  my  tale,  heard  twenty  years  ago 
From  Uncle  Reuben,  as  the  logs  burned  low, 
Touching  the  walls  and  ceiling  with  that  bloom 
That  makes  a  rose's  calyx  of  a  room. 
I  could  not  give  his  language,  wherethrough  ran 
The  gamy  flavor  of  the  bookless  man 
Who  shapes  a  word  before  the  fancy  cools, 
As  lonely  Crusoe  improvised  his  tools. 
I  liked  the  tale,  —  't  was  like  so  many  told 
By  Rutebeuf  and  his  brother  Trouveres  bold; 


226  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Nor  were  the  hearers  much  unlike  to  theirs, 
Men  unsophisticate,  rude-nerved  as  bears. 
Ezra  is  gone  and  his  large-hearted  kind, 
The  landlords  of  the  hospitable  mind  ; 
Good  Warriner  of  Springfield  was  the  last ; 
An  inn  is  now  a  vision  of  the  past ; 
One  yet-surviving  host  my  mind  recalls,  — 
You  '11  find  him  if  you  go  to  Trenton  Falls.' 


THE   ORIGIN   OF   DIDACTIC   POETRY 

WHEN  wise  Minerva  still  was  young 

And  just  the  least  romantic, 
Soon  after  from  Jove's  head  she  flung 

That  preternatural  antic, 
'T  is  said,  to  keep  from  idleness 

Or  flirting,  those  twin  curses, 
She  spent  her  leisure,  more  or  less, 

In  writing  po ,  no,  verses. 

How  nice  they  were !  to  rhyme  with/cw 

A  kind  star  did  not  tarry  ; 
The  metre,  too,  was  regular 

As  schoolboy's  dot  and  carry ; 
And  full  they  were  of  pious  plums, 

So  extra-super-moral,  — 
For  sucking  Virtue's  tender  gums 

Most  tooth-enticing  coral. 

A  clean,  fair  copy  she  prepares, 
Makes  sure  of  rnoods  and  tenses, 


THE   ORIGIN  OF  DIDACTIC  POETRY     227 

With  her  own  hand,  —  for  prudence  spares 

A  man- (or  woman-) -uen  sis  ; 
Complete,  and  tied  with  ribbons  proud, 

She  hinted  soon  how  cosy  a 
Treat  it  would  be  to  read  them  loud 

After  next  day's  Ambrosia. 

The  Gods  thought  not  it  would  amuse 

So  much  as  Homer's  Odyssees, 
But  could  not  very  well  refuse 

The  properest  of  Goddesses  ; 
So  all  sat  round  in  attitudes 

Of  various  dejection, 
As  with  a  hem  !  the  queen  of  prudes 

Began  her  grave  prelection. 

At  the  first  pause  Zeus  said,  "  Well  sung !  — 

I  mean  —  ask  Phoebus,  —  he  knows." 
Says  Phoebus,  "  Zounds !  a  wolf  's  among 

Admetus's  merinos  ! 
Fine !  very  fine  !  but  I  must  go  ; 

They  stand  in  need  of  me  there  ; 
Excuse  me !  "  snatched  his  stick,  and  so 

Plunged  down  the  gladdened  ether. 

With  the  next  gap,  Mars  said,  "  For  me 

Don't  wait,  —  naught  could  be  finer, 
But  I  'm  engaged  at  half  past  three,  — 

A  fight  in  Asia  Minor !  " 
Then  Venus  lisped,  "  I  'm  sorely  tried, 

These  duty-calls  are  vip'rous  ; 
But  I  must  go  ;  I  have  a  bride 

To  see  about  in  Cyprus." 


228  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Then  Bacchus,  —  "I  must  say  good  bye, 

Although  my  peace  it  jeopards ; 
I  meet  a  man  at  four,  to  try 

A  well-broke  pair  of  leopards." 
His  words  woke  Hermes.     "  Ah!  "  he  said, 

"  I  so  love  moral  theses  !  " 
Then  winked  at  Hebe,  who  turned  red, 

And  smoothed  her  apron's  creases. 

Just  then  Zeus  snored,  —  the  Eagle  drew 

His  head  the  wing  from  under ; 
Zeus  snored,  —  o'er  startled  Greece  there  flew 

The  many-volumed  thunder. 
Some  augurs  counted  nine,  some,  ten ; 

Some  said  't  was  war,  some,  famine, 
And  all,  that  other-minded  men 

Would  get  a  precious . 

Proud  Pallas  sighed,  "  It  will  not  do ; 

Against  the  Muse  I  've  sinned,  oh ! " 
And  her  torn  rhymes  sent  flying  through 

Olympus's  back  window. 
Then,  packing  up  a  peplus  clean, 

She  took  the  shortest  path  thence, 
And  opened,  with  a  mind  serene, 

A  Sunday-school  in  Athens. 

The  verses  ?     Some  in  ocean  swilled, 
Killed  every  fish  that  bit  to  'em ; 

Some  Galen  caught,  and,  when  distilled, 
Found  morphine  the  residuum  ; 

But  some  that  rotted  on  the  earth 
Sprang  up  again  in  copies, 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN  229 

And  gave  two  strong  narcotics  birth, 
Didactic  verse  and  poppies. 

Years  after,  when  a  poet  asked 

The  Goddess's  opinion, 
As  one  whose  soul  its  wings  had  tasked 

In  Art's  clear-aired  dominion, 
"  Discriminate,"  she  said,  "  betimes ; 

The  Muse  is  unforgiving  ; 
Put  all  your  beauty  in  your  rhymes, 

Your  morals  in  your  living." 


THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN 

DON'T  believe  in  the  Flying  Dutchman  ? 

I  've  known  the  fellow  for  years ; 
My  button  I  've  wrenched  from  his  clutch,  man 

I  shudder  whenever  he  nears ! 

He 's  a  Rip  van  Winkle  skipper, 

A  Wandering  Jew  of  the  sea, 
Who  sails  his  bedevilled  old  clipper 

In  the  wind's  eye,  straight  as  a  bee. 

Back  topsails !  you  can't  escape  him ; 

The  man-ropes  stretch  with  his  weight, 
And  the  queerest  old  toggeries  drape  him, 

The  Lord  knows  how  long  out  of  date  ! 

Like  a  long-disembodied  idea, 
(A  kind  of  ghost  plentiful  now,) 


230  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

He  stands  there ;  you  fancy  you  see  a 
Coeval  of  Teniers  or  Douw. 


He  greets  you ;  would  have  you  take  letters : 
You  scan  the  addresses  with  dread, 

While  he  mutters  his  donners  and  wetter  s,  — 
They  're  all  from  the  dead  to  the  dead ! 

You  seem  taking  time  for  reflection, 

But  the  heart  fills  your  throat  with  a  jam, 

As  you  spell  in  each  faded  direction 
An  ominous  ending  in  dam. 

Am  I  tagging  my  rhymes  to  a  legend  ? 

That  were  changing  green  turtle  to  mock : 
No,  thank  you  !    I  've  found  out  which  wedge-end 

Is  meant  for  the  head  of  a  block. 

The  fellow  I  have  in  my  mind's  eye 

Plays  the  old  Skipper's  part  here  on  shore, 

And  sticks  like  a  burr,  till  lie  finds  I 
Have  got  just  the  gauge  of  his  bore. 

This  postman  'twixt  one  ghost  and  t'  other, 
"With  last  dates  that  smell  of  the  mould, 

I  have  met  him  (O  man  and  brother, 
Forgive  me  !)  in  azure  and  gold. 

In  the  pulpit  I  've  known  of  his  preaching, 

Out  of  hearing  behind  the  time, 
Some  statement  of  Balaam's  impeaching, 

Giving  Eve  a  due  sense  of  her  crime. 


CREDID1MUS  JOVEM  REGNARE        231 

I  have  seen  him  some  poor  ancient  thrashing 
Into  something  (God  save  us !)  more  dry, 

With  the  Water  of  Life  itself  washing 
The  life  out  of  earth,  sea,  and  sky. 

O  dread  fellow-mortal,  get  newer 

Despatches  to  carry,  or  none ! 
We  're  as  quick  as  the  Greek  and  the  Jew  were 

At  knowing  a  loaf  from  a  stone. 

Till  the  couriers  of  God  fail  in  duty, 
We  sha'n't  ask  a  mummy  for  news, 

Nor  sate  the  soul's  hunger  for  beauty 

With  your  drawings  from  casts  of  a  Muse. 

CREDIDIMUS   JOVEM   REGNARE 

O  DAYS  endeared  to  every  Muse, 
When  nobody  had  any  Views, 
Nor,  while  the  cloudscape  of  his  mind 
By  every  breeze  was  new  designed, 
Insisted  all  the  world  should  see 
Camels  or  whales  where  none  there  be ! 

0  happy  days,  when  men  received 
From  sire  to  son  what  all  believed, 
And  left  the  other  world  in  bliss, 
Too  busy  with  bedevilling  this  ! 

Beset  by  doubts  of  every  breed 
In  the  last  bastion  of  my  creed, 
With  shot  and  shell  for  Sabbath-chime, 

1  watch  the  storming-party  climb, 


232  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Panting  (their  prey  in  easy  reach), 
To  pour  triumphant  through  the  breach 
In  walls  that  shed  like  snowflakes  tons 
Of  missiles  from  old-fashioned  guns, 
But  crumble  'neath  the  storm  that  pours 
All  day  and  night  from  bigger  bores. 
There,  as  I  hopeless  watch  and  wait 
The  last  life-crushing  coil  of  Fate, 
Despair  finds  solace  in  the  praise 
Of  those  serene  dawn-rosy  days 
Ere  microscopes  had  made  us  heirs 
To  large  estates  of  doubts  and  snares, 
By  proving  that  the  title-deeds, 
Once  all-sufficient  for  men's  needs, 
Are  palimpsests  that  scarce  disguise 
The  tracings  of  still  earlier  lies, 
Themselves  as  surely  written  o'er 
An  older  fib  erased  before. 

So  from  these  days  I  fly  to  those 
That  in  the  landlocked  Past  repose, 
Where  no  rude  wind  of  doctrine  shakes 
From  bloom-flushed  boughs  untimely  flakes ; 
Where  morning's  eyes  see  nothing  strange, 
No  crude  perplexity  of  change, 
And  morrows  trip  along  their  ways 
Secure  as  happy  yesterdays. 
Then  there  were  rulers  who  could  trace 
Through  heroes  up  to  gods  their  race, 
Pledged  to  fair  fame  and  noble  use 
By  veins  from  Odin  filled  or  Zeus, 
And  under  bonds  to  keep  divine 


CREDIDIMUS  JOVEM  REGNARE        233 

The  praise  of  a  celestial  line. 

Then  priests  could  pile  the  altar's  sods, 

With  whom  gods  spake  as  they  with  gods, 

And  everywhere  from  haunted  earth 

Broke  springs  of  wonder,  that  had  birth 

In  depths  divine  beyond  the  ken 

And  fatal  scrutiny  of  men  ; 

Then  hills  and  groves  and  streams  and  seas 

Thrilled  with  immortal  presences, 

Not  too  ethereal  for  the  scope 

Of  human  passion's  dream  or  hope. 

Now  Pan  at  last  is  surely  dead, 

And  King  No-Credit  reigns  instead, 

Whose  officers,  morosely  strict, 

Poor  Fancy's  tenantry  evict, 

Chase  the  last  Genius  from  the  door, 

And  nothing  dances  any  more. 

Nothing  ?     Ah,  yes,  our  tables  do, 

Drumming  the  Old  One's  own  tattoo, 

And,  if  the  oracles  are  dumb, 

Have  we  not  mediums  ?     Why  be  glum  ? 

Fly  thither  ?     Why,  the  very  air 
Is  full  of  hindrance  and  despair  I 
Fly  thither  ?     But  I  cannot  fly ; 
My  doubts  enmesh  me  if  I  try, 
Each  Liliputian,  but,  combined, 
Potent  a  giant's  limbs  to  bind. 
This  world  and  that  are  growing  dark ; 
A  huge  interrogation  mark, 
The  Devil's  crook  episcopal, 


234  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Still  borne  before  him  since  the  Fall, 
Blackens  with  its  ill-omened  sign 
The  old  blue  heaven  of  faith  benign. 
Whence?      Whither?      Wherefore?      How? 

Which?     Why? 
All  ask  at  once,  all  wait  reply. 
Men  feel  old  systems  cracking  under  'em ; 
Life  saddens  to  a  mere  conundrum 
Which  once  Religion  solved,  but  she 
Has  lost  —  has  Science  found  ?  —  the  key. 

What  was  snow-bearded  Odin,  trow, 

The  mighty  hunter  long  ago, 

Whose  horn  and  hounds  the  peasant  hears 

Still  when  the  Northlights  shake  their  spears  ? 

Science  hath  answers  twain',  I  Ve  heard ; 

Choose  which  you  will,  nor  hope  a  third  ; 

Whichever  box  the  truth  be  stowed  in, 

There  's  not  a  sliver  left  of  Odin. 

Either  he  was  a  pinchbrowed  thing, 

With  scarcely  wit  a  stone  to  fling, 

A  creature  both  in  size  and  shape 

Nearer  than  we  are  to  the  ape, 

Who  hung  sublime  with  brat  and  spouse 

By  tail  prehensile  from  the  boughs, 

And,  happier  than  his  maimed  descendants, 

The  culture-curtailed  independents, 

Could  pluck  his  cherries  with  both  paws, 

And  stuff  with  both  his  big-boned  jaws  ; 

Or  else  the  core  his  name  enveloped 

Was  from  a  solar  myth  developed, 

Which,  hunted  to  its  primal  shoot, 


CREDIDIMUS  JOVEM  REGNARE        235 

Takes  refuge  in  a  Sanskrit  root, 
Thereby  to  instant  death  explaining 
The  little  poetry  remaining. 
Try  it  with  Zeus,  't  is  just  the  same ; 
The  thing  evades,  we  hug  a  name  ; 
Nay,  scarcely  that,  —  perhaps  a  vapor 
Born  of  some  atmospheric  caper. 
All  Lempriere's  fables  blur  together 
In  cloudy  symbols  of  the  weather, 
And  Aphrodito  rose  from  frothy  seas 
But  to  illustrate  such  hypotheses. 
With  years  enough  behind  his  back, 
Lincoln  will  take  the  selfsame  track, 
And  prove,  hulled  fairly  to  the  cob, 
A  mere  vagary  of  Old  Prob. 
Give  the  right  man  a  solar  myth, 
And  he  11  confute  the  sun  therewith. 

They  make  things  admirably  plain, 
But  one  hard  question  will  remain : 
If  one  hypothesis  you  lose, 
Another  in  its  place  you  choose, 
But,  your  faith  gone,  O  man  and  brother^ 
Whose  shop  shall  furnish  you  another  ? 
One  that  will  wash,  I  mean,  and  wear, 
And  wrap  us  warmly  from  despair  ? 
While  they  are  clearing  up  our  puzzles, 
And  clapping  prophylactic  muzzles 
On  the  Actseon's  hounds  that  sniff 
Our  devious  track  through  But  and  If, 
Would  they  'd  explain  away  the  Devil 
And  other  facts  that  won't  keep  level, 


236  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

But  rise  beneath  our  feet  or  fail, 
A  reeling  ship's  deck  in  a  gale  I 
God  vanished  long  ago,  iwis, 
A  mere  subjective  synthesis  ; 
A  doll,  stuffed  out  with  hopes  and  fears, 
Too  homely  for  us  pretty  dears, 
Who  want  one  that  conviction  carries, 
Last  make  of  London  or  of  Paris. 
He  gone,  I  felt  a  moment's  spasm, 
But  calmed  myself  with  Protoplasm, 
A  finer  name,  and,  what  is  more, 
As  enigmatic  as  before  ; 
Greek,  too,  and  sure  to  fill  with  ease 
Minds  caught  in  the  Symplegades 
Of  soul  and  sense,  life's  two  conditions. 
Each  baffled  with  its  own  omniscience. 
The  men  who  labor  to  revise 
Our  Bibles  will,  I  hope,  be  wise, 
And  print  it  without  foolish  qualms 
Instead  of  God  in  David's  psalms  : 
Noll  had  been  more  effective  far 
Could  he  have  shouted  at  Dunbar, 
"  Rise,  Protoplasm  !  "     No  dourest  Scot 
Had  waited  for  another  shot. 

And  yet  I  frankly  must  confess 

A  secret  unforgivingness, 

And  shudder  at  the  saving  chrism 

Whose  best  New  Birth  is  Pessimism ; 

My  soul  —  I  mean  the  bit  of  phosphorus 

That  fills  the  place  of  what  that  was  for  us 

Can't  bid  its  inward  bores  defiance 


CREDIDIMUS  JOVEM  REGNARE         237 

With  the  new  nursery-tales  of  science. 
What  profits  me,  though  doubt  by  doubt, 
As  nail  by  nail,  be  driven  out, 
When  every  new  one,  like  the  last, 
Still  holds  my  coffin-lid  as  fast  ? 
Would  I  find  thought  a  moment's  truce, 
Give  me  the  young  world's  Mother  Goose 
With  life  and  joy  in  every  limb, 
The  chimney-corner  tales  of  Grimm  ! 

Our  dear  and  admirable  Huxley 
Cannot  explain  to  me  why  ducks  lay, 
Or,  rather,  how  into  their  eggs 
Blunder  potential  wings  and  legs 
With  will  to  move  them  and  decide 
Whether  in  air  or  lymph  to  glide. 
Who  gets  a  hair's-breadth  on  by  showing 
That  Something  Else  set  all  agoing  ? 
Farther  and  farther  back  we  push 
From  Moses  and  his  burning  bush  ; 
Cry,  "  Art  Thou  there  ?  "     Above,  below, 
All  Nature  mutters  yes  and  no  ! 
'T  is  the  old  answer :  we  're  agreed 
Being  from  Being  must  proceed, 
Life  be  Life's  source.     I  might  as  well 
Obey  the  meeting-house's  bell, 
And  listen  while  Old  Hundred  pours 
Forth  through  the  summer-opened  doors, 
From  old  and  young.     I  hear  it  yet, 
Swelled  by  bass-viol  and  clarinet, 
While  the  gray  minister,  with  face 
Radiant,  let  loose  his  noble  bass. 


238  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

If  Heaven  it  reached  not,  yet  its  roll 
Waked  all  the  echoes  of  the  soul, 
And  in  it  many  a  life  found  wings 
To  soar  away  from  sordid  things. 
Church  gone  and  singers  too,  the  song 
Sings  to  me  voiceless  all  night  long, 
Till  my  soul  beckons  me  afar, 
Glowing  and  trembling  like  a  star. 
Will  any  scientific  touch 
With  my  worn  strings  achieve  as  much  ? 

I  don't  object,  not  I,  to  know 

My  sires  were  monkeys,  if  't  was  so ; 

I  touch  my  ear's  collusive  tip 

And  own  the  poor-relationship. 

That  apes  of  various  shapes  and  sizes 

Contained  their  germs  that  all  the  prizes 

Of  senate,  pulpit,  camp,  and  bar  win 

May  give  us  hopes  that  sweeten  Darwin. 

Who  knows  but  from  our  loins  may  spring 

(Long  hence)  some  winged  sweet-throated  thing 

As  much  superior  to  us 

As  we  to  Cynocephalus  ? 

This  is  consoling,  but,  alas, 
It  wipes  no  dimness  from  the  glass 
Where  I  am  flattening  my  poor  nose, 
In  hope  to  see  beyond  my  toes. 
Though  I  accept  my  pedigree, 
Yet  where,  pray  tell  me,  is  the  key 
That  should  unlock  a  private  door 
To  the  Great  Mystery,  such  no  more  ? 


TEMPORA   MUTANTUR  239 

Each  offers  his,  but  one  nor  all 
Are  much  persuasive  with  the  wall 
That  rises  now,  as  long  ago, 
Between  I  wonder  and  I  know, 
Nor  will  vouchsafe  a  pin-hole  peep 
At  the  veiled  Isis  in  its  keep. 
Where  is  no  door,  I  but  produce 
My  key  to  find  it  of  no  use. 
Yet  better  keep  it,  after  all, 
Since  Nature 's  economical, 
And  who  can  tell  but  some  fine  day 
(If  it  occur  to  her)  she  may, 
In  her  good- will  to  you  and  me, 
Make  door  and  lock  to  match  the  key  ? 


TEMPORA  MUTANTUR 

THE  world  turns  mild ;  democracy,  they  say, 
Rounds  the  sharp  knobs  of  character  away, 
And  no  great  harm,  unless  at  grave  expense 
Of  what  needs  edge  of  proof,  the  moral  sense ; 
For  man  or  race  is  on  the  downward  path 
Whose  fibre  grows  too  soft  for  honest  wrath, 
And  there  's  a  subtle  influence  that  springs 
From  words  to  modify  our  sense  of  things. 
A  plain  distinction  grows  obscure  of  late : 
Man,  if  he  will,  may  pardon  ;  but  the  State 
Forgets  its  function  if  not  fixed  as  Fate. 
So  thought  our  sires :  a  hundred  years  ago, 
If  men  were  knaves,  why,  people  called  them  so, 
And  crime  could  see  the  pris  in-portal  bend 


240  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Its  brow  severe  at  no  long  vista's  end. 

In  those  days  for  plain  things  plain  words  would 

serve ; 

Men  had  not  learned  to  admire  the  graceful  swerve 
"Wherewith  the  Esthetic  Nature's  genial  mood 
Makes  public  duty  slope  to  private  good ; 
No  muddled  conscience  raised  the  saving  doubt ; 
A  soldier  proved  unworthy  was  drummed  out, 
An  officer  cashiered,  a  civil  servant 
(No  matter  though  his  piety  were  fervent) 
Disgracefully  dismissed,  and  through  the  land 
Each  bore  for  life  a  stigma  from  the  brand 
Whose  far-heard  hiss  made  others  more  averse 
To  take  the  facile  step  from  bad  to  worse. 
The  Ten  Commandments  had  a  meaning  then, 
Felt  in  their  bones  by  least  considerate  men, 
Because  behind  them  Public  Conscience  stood, 
And  without  wincing  made  their  mandates  good. 
But  now  that  "  Statesmanship  "  is  just  a  way 
To  dodge  the  primal  curse  and  make  it  pay, 
Since  office  means  a  kind  of  patent  drill 
To  force  an  entrance  to  the  Nation's  till, 
And  peculation  something  rather  less 
Bisky  than  if  you  spelt  it  with  an  s  ; 
Now  that  to  steal  by  law  is  grown  an  art, 
Whom  rogues  the  sires,  their  milder  sons  call  smart, 
And  "  slightly  irregular  "  dilutes  the  shame 
Of  what  had  once  a  somewhat  blunter  name. 
With  generous  curve  we  draw  the  moral  line : 
Our  swindlers  are  permitted  to  resign ; 
Their  guilt  is  wrapped  in  deferential  names, 
And  twenty  sympathize  for  one  that  blames. 


TEMPORA   MUTANTUR  241 

Add  national  disgrace  to  private  crime, 
Confront  mankind  with  brazen  front  sublime, 
Steal  but  enough,  the  world  is  unsevere,  — 
Tweed  is  a  statesman,  Fisk  a  financier ; 
Invent  a  mine,  and  be  —  the  Lord  knows  what ; 
Secure,  at  any  rate,  with  what  you  've  got. 
The  public  servant  who  has  stolen  or  lied, 
If  called  on,  may  resign  with  honest  pride  r 
As  unjust  favor  put  him  in,  why  doubt 
Disfavor  as  unjust  has  turned  him  out? 
Even  if  indicted,  what  is  that  but  fudge 
To  him  who  counted-in  the  elective  judge  ? 
Whitewashed,  he  quits  the  politician's  strife 
At  ease  in  mind,  with  pockets  filled  for  life : 
His  "  lady  "  glares  with  gems  whose  vulgar  blaze 
The  poor  man  through  his  heightened  taxes  pays, 
Himself  content  if  one  huge  Kohinoor 
Bulge  from  a  shirt-front  ampler  than  before, 
But  not  too  candid,  lest  it  haply  tend 
To  rouse  suspicion  of  the  People's  Friend. 
A  public  meeting,  treated  at  his  cost, 
Resolves  him  back  more  virtue  than  he  lost ; 
With  character  regilt  he  counts  his  gains ; 
What 's  gone  was  air,  the  solid  good  remains ; 
For  what  is  good,  except  what  friend  and  foe 
Seem  quite  unanimous  in  thinking  so, 
The  stocks  and  bonds  which,  in  our  age  of  loans, 
Replace  the  stupid  pagan's  stocks  and  stones? 
With  choker  white,  wherein  no  cynic  eye 
Dares  see  idealized  a  hempen  tie, 
At  parish-meetings  he  conducts  in  prayer, 
And  pays  for  missions  to  be  sent  elsewhere ; 


242  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

On  'Change  respected,  to  his  friends  endeared, 
Add  but  a  Sunday-school-class,  he  's  revered, 
And  his  too  early  tomb  will  not  be  dumb 
To  point  a  moral  for  our  youth  to  come. 

1872. 

IN  THE   HALF-WAY  HOUSE 


AT  twenty  we  fancied  the  blest  Middle  Ages 

A  spirited  cross  of  romantic  and  grand, 
All  templars  and  niinstrels  and  ladies  and  pages, 

And  love  and  adventure  in  Outre-Mer  land  ; 
But  ah,  where  the  youth  dreamed  of  building  a 

minster, 

The  man  takes  a  pew  and  sits  reckoning  his  pelf, 
And  the  Graces  wear  fronts,  the  Muse  thins  to  a 

spinster, 

When  Middle-Age   stares  from  one's  glass  at 
oneself  I 

II. 

Do  you  twit  me  with  days  when  I  had  an  Ideal, 
And   saw   the   sear   future    through   spectacles 

green  ? 
Then  find  me  some  charm,  while  I  look  round  and 

see  all 

These  fat  friends  of  forty,  shall  keep  me  nine- 
teen; 

Should  we  go  on  pining  for  chaplets  of  laurel 
Who  've    paid    a   perruquier   for   mending   our 
thatch, 


IN  THE  HALF-WAY  HOUSE  243 

Or,  our  feet  swathed  in  baize,  with  our  Fate  pick  a 

quarrel, 

If,  instead  of  cheap  bay-leaves,  she  sent  a  dear 
scratch  ? 

III. 

We  called  it  our  Eden,  that  small  patent-baker, 
When  life  was  half  moonshine  and  half  Mary 

Jane ; 

But   the  butcher,  the  baker,  the   candlestick-ma- 
ker!— 

Did  Adam  have  duns   and  slip  down  a  back- 
lane? 

Nay,  after  the  Fall  did  the  modiste  keep  coming 
With   last   styles  of   fig-leaf   to    Madam   Eve's 

bower  ? 

Did  Jubal,  or  whoever  taught  the  girls  thrumming, 
Make  the  patriarchs  deaf  at  a  dollar  the  hour  ? 

IV. 

As  I  think  what  I  was,  I  sigh  Desunt  nonnulla  ! 
Years  are  creditors   Sheridan's   self    could   not 

bilk; 
But  then,  as  my  boy  says,  "  What  right  has  a  ful- 

lah 
To  ask  for  the   cream,  when  himself  spilt  the 

milk?" 

Perhaps  when  you  're  older,  my  lad,  you  '11  discover 
The  secret  with  which  Auld  Lang  Syne  there  is 

gilt,  — 

Superstition  of  old  man,  maid,  poet,  and  lover,  — 
That  cream  rises  thickest  on  milk  that  was  spilt ! 


244  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

v. 

We  sailed  for  the  moon,  but,  in  sad  disillusion, 
Snug  under  Point  Comfort  are  glad  to  make 

fast, 

And  strive   (sans  our  glasses)  to  make  a  confu- 
sion 
'Twixt  our  rind  of  green  cheese  and  the  moon  of 

the  past. 
Ah,  Might-have-been,  Could  -  have  -  been,  Would- 

have-been  !  rascals, 

He  's  a  genius  or  fool  whom  ye  cheat  at  two- 
score, 
And  the  man  whose  boy-promise  was  likened  to 

Pascal's 
Is  thankful  at  forty  they  don't  call  him  bore ! 

VI. 

With  what  fumes  of  fame  was  each  confident  pate 

full! 
How   rates   of    insurance   should    rise    on   the 

Charles ! 

And  which  of  us  now  would  not  feel  wisely  grate- 
ful, 
If  his  rhymes  sold  as  fast  as  the  Emblems  of 

Quarles  ? 
E'en  if  won,  what 's  the  good  of  Life's  medals  and 

prizes  ? 

The  rapture  's  in  what  never  was  or  is  gone  ; 
That  we  missed  them  makes  Helens  of  plain  Ann 

Elizys, 
For  the  goose  of  To-day  still  is  Memory's  swan. 


AT  THE  BURNS  CENTENNIAL          245 

VII. 
And  yet  who  would  change  the  old  dream  for  new 

treasure  ? 
Make  not  youth's  sourest  grapes  the  best  wine 

of  our  life  ? 

Need  he  reckon  his  date  by  the  Almanac's  measure 
Who  is  twenty  life-long  in  the  eyes  of  his  wife  ? 
Ah,  Fate,  should  I  live  to  be  nonagenarian, 

Let  me  still  take  Hope's  frail  I.  O.  U.s  upon 

trust, 
Still  talk  of  a  trip  to  the  Islands  Macarian, 

And  still  climb  the  dream-tree  for  —  ashes  and 
dust! 


AT  THE  BURNS  CENTENNIAL 

JANUARY,    1859 
I. 

A  HUNDEED  years  !  they  ?re  quickly  fled, 

With  all  their  joy  and  sorrow ; 
Their  dead  leaves  shed  upon  the  dead, 

Their  fresh  ones  sprung  by  morrow  I 
And  still  the  patient  seasons  bring 

Their  change  of  sun  and  shadow ; 
New  birds  still  sing  with  every  spring, 

New  violets  spot  the  meadow. 

II. 

A  hundred  years !  and  Nature's  powers 
No  greater  grown  nor  lessened  I 


246  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

They  saw  no  flowers  more  sweet  than  ours, 
No  fairer  new  moon's  crescent. 

Would  she  but  treat  us  poets  so, 
So  from  our  winter  free  us, 

And  set  our  slow  old  sap  aflow 
To  sprout  in  fresh  ideas ! 

in. 

Alas,  think  I,  what  worth  or  parts 

Have  brought  me  here  competing, 
To  speak  what  starts  in  myriad  hearts 

With  Burns's  memory  beating  ! 
Himself  had  loved  a  theme  like  this  ; 

Must  I  be  its  entomber  ? 
No  pen  save  his  but 's  sure  to  miss 

Its  pathos  or  its  humor. 

IV. 

As  I  sat  musing  what  to  say, 

And  how  my  verse  to  number, 
Some  elf  in  play  passed  by  that  way, 

And  sank  my  lids  in  slumber ; 
And  on  my  sleep  a  vision  stole, 

Which  I  will  put  in  metre, 
Of  Burns's  soul  at  the  wicket-hole 

Where  sits  the  good  Saint  Peter. 

v. 

The  saint,  methought,  had  left  his  post 

That  day  to  Holy  Willie, 
Who  swore,  "  Each  ghost  that  comes  shall  toast 

In  brunstane,  will  he,  nill  he ; 


AT  THE  BURNS   CENTENNIAL          247 

There 's  nane  need  hope  with  phrases  fine 

Their  score  to  wipe  a  sin  f  rae ; 
I  '11  chalk  a  sign,  to  save  their  tryin',  — 

A  hand  (  g> )  and  4  Vide  infra  I ' 

VI. 

Alas  !  no  soil 's  too  cold  or  dry 

For  spiritual  small  potatoes, 
Scrimped  natures,  spry  the  trade  to  ply 

Of  diaboli  advocatus  ; 
Who  lay  bent  pins  in  the  penance-stool 

Where  Mercy  plumps  a  cushion, 
Who  've  just  one  rule  for  knave  and  fool, 

It  saves  so  much  confusion  ! 

VII. 

So  when  Burns  knocked,  Will  knit  his  brows, 

His  window  gap  made  scanter, 
And  said,  "  Go  rouse  the  other  house  ; 

We  lodge  no  Tarn  O'Shanter !  " 
"  We  lodge !  "  laughed  Burns.    "  Now  well  I  see 

Death  cannot  kill  old  nature ; 
No  human  flea  but  thinks  that  he 

May  speak  for  his  Creator ! 

VIII. 

"  But,  Willie,  friend,  don't  turn  me  forth, 

Auld  Clootie  needs  no  gauger  ; 
And  if  on  earth  I  had  small  worth, 

You  've  let  in  worse,  I  'se  wager  !  " 
"  Na,  nane  has  knockit  at  the  yett 

But  found  me  hard  as  whunstane ; 


248  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

There  's  chances  yet  your  bread  to  get 
Wi  Auld  Nick,  gaugin'  brunstane." 

IX. 

Meanwhile,  the  Unco'  Guid  had  ta'en 

Their  place  to  watch  the  process, 
Flattening  in  vain  on  many  a  pane 

Their  disembodied  noses. 
Eemember,  please,  't  is  all  a  dream  ; 

One  can't  control  the  fancies 
Through  sleep  that  stream  with  wayward  gleam, 

Like  midnight's  boreal  dances. 

X. 

Old  Willie's  tone  grew  sharp  's  a  knife  : 

"  In  primis,  I  indite  ye, 
For  makin'  strife  wi'  the  water  o'  life, 

And  preferrin'  aqua  vitce  !  " 
Then  roared  a  voice  with  lusty  din, 

Like  a  skipper's  when  't  is  blowy, 
"  If  that 's  a  sin,  /  'd  ne'er  got  in, 

As  sure  as  my  name  's  Noah !  " 

XI. 

Baulked,  Willie  turned  another  leaf,  — 

"  There  's  many  here  have  heard  ye, 
To  the  pain  and  grief  o'  true  belief, 

Say  hard  things  o'  the  clergy !  " 
Then  rang  a  clear  tone  over  all,  — 

"  One  plea  for  him  allow  me  : 
I  once  heard  call  from  o'er  me,  '  Saul, 

Why  persecutest  thou  me  ?  " 


AT  THE  BURNS   CENTENNIAL          249 


XII. 

To  the  next  charge  vexed  Willie  turned, 

And,  sighing,  wiped  his  glasses  : 
"  I  'm  much  concerned  to  find  ye  yearned 

O'er-warmly  tow'rd  the  lasses !  " 
Here  David  sighed ;  poor  Willie's  face 

Lost  all  its  self-possession  : 
"  I  leave  this  case  to  God's  own  grace ; 
It  baffles  my  discretion !  " 

XIII. 

Then  sudden  glory  round  me  broke, 

And  low  melodious  surges 
Of  wings  whose  stroke  to  splendor  woke 

Creation's  farthest  verges ; 
A  cross  stretched,  ladder-like,  secure 

From  earth  to  heaven's  own  portal, 
Whereby  God's  poor,  with  footing  sure, 

Climbed  up  to  peace  immortal. 

XIV. 

I  heard  a  voice  serene  and  low 

(With  my  heart  I  seemed  to  hear  it) 
Fall  soft  and  slow  as  snow  on  snow, 

Like  grace  of  the  heavenly  spirit ; 
As  sweet  as  over  new-born  son 

The  croon  of  new-made  mother, 
The  voice  begun,  "  Sore  tempted  one !  " 

Then,  pausing,  sighed,  "  Our  brother  I 


250  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

XV. 

"  If  not  a  sparrow  fall,  unless 

The  Father  sees  and  knows  it, 
Think  !  recks  he  less  his  form  express, 

The  soul  his  own  deposit  ? 
If  only  dear  to  Him  the  strong, 

That  never  trip  nor  wander, 
Where  were  the  throng  whose  morning  song 

Thrills  His  blue  arches  yonder  ? 

XVI. 

"  Do  souls  alone  clear-eyed,  strong-kneed, 

To  Him  true  service  render, 
And  they  who  need  His  hand  to  lead, 

Find  they  His  heart  untender  ? 
Through  all  your  various  ranks  and  fates 

He  opens  doors  to  duty, 
And  he  that  waits  there  at  your  gates 

Was  servant  of  His  Beauty. 

XVII. 

"  The  Earth  must  richer  sap  secrete, 

(Could  ye  in  time  but  know  it !) 
Must  juice  concrete  with  fiercer  heat, 

Ere  she  can  make  her  poet ; 
Long  generations  go  and  come, 

At  last  she  bears  a  singer, 
For  ages  dumb  of  senses  numb 

The  cornpensation-bringer ! 


AT  THE  BURNS  CENTENNIAL          251 


XVIII. 

"  Her  cheaper  broods  in  palaces 

She  raises  under  glasses, 
But  souls  like  these,  heav'n's  hostages, 

Spring  shelterless  as  grasses  : 
They  share  Earth's  blessing  and  her  bane, 

The  common  sun  and  shower  ; 
What  makes  your  pain  to  them  is  gain, 

Your  weakness  is  their  power. 

XIX. 

"  These  larger  hearts  must  feel  the  rolls 

Of  stormier-waved  temptation ; 
These  star-wide  souls  between  their  poles 

Bear  zones  of  tropic  passion. 
He  loved  much  !  —  that  is  gospel  good, 

Howe'er  the  text  you  handle ; 
From  common  wood  the  cross  was  hewed, 

By  love  turned  priceless  sandal. 

xx. 

"  If  scant  his  service  at  the  kirk, 

He  patzrs  heard  and  aves 
From  choirs  that  lurk  in  hedge  and  birk, 

From  blackbird  and  from  mavis  ; 
The  cowering  mouse,  poor  unroofed  thing, 

In  him  found  Mercy's  angel ; 
The  daisy's  ring  brought  every  spring 

To  him  Love's  fresh  evangel ! 


252  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 


XXI. 

"  Not  he  the  threatening  texts  who  deals 

Is  highest  'mong  the  preachers, 
But  he  who  feels  the  woes  and  weals 

Of  all  God's  wandering  creatures. 
He  doth  good  work  whose  heart  can  find 

The  spirit  'neath  the  letter ; 
Who  makes  his  kind  of  happier  mind, 

Leaves  wiser  men  and  better. 

XXII. 

"  They  make  Religion  be  abhorred 

Who  round  with  darkness  gulf  her, 
And  think  no  word  can  please  the  Lord 

Unless  it  smell  of  sulphur. 
Dear  Poet-heart,  that  childlike  guessed 

The  Father's  loving  kindness, 
Come  now  to  rest !     Thou  didst  His  hest, 

If  haply  't  was  in  blindness  !  " 

XXIII. 

Then  leapt  heaven's  portals  wide  apart, 

And  at  their  golden  thunder 
With  sudden  start  I  woke,  my  heart 

Still  throbbing-full  of  wonder. 
"  Father,"  I  said,  "  't  is  known  to  Thee 

How  Thou  thy  Saints  preparest ; 
But  this  I  see,  —  Saint  Charity 

Is  still  the  first  and  fairest !  " 


IN  AN  ALBUM  253 

XXIV. 

Dear  Bard  and  Brother  !  let  who  may 

Against  thy  faults  be  railing, 
(Though  far,  I  pray,  from  us  be  they 

That  never  had  a  failing !) 
One  toast  I  '11  give,  and  that  not  long, 

Which  thou  wouldst  pledge  if  present,  — 
To  him  whose  song,  in  nature  strong, 

Makes  man  of  prince  and  peasant ! 


IN  AN  ALBUM 

THE  misspelt  scrawl,  upon  the  wall 
By  some  Pompeian  idler  traced, 
In  ashes  packed  (ironic  fact !) 
Lies  eighteen  centuries  uneffaced, 
While  many  a  page  of  bard  and  sage, 
Deemed  once  mankind's  immortal  gain, 
Lost  from  Time's  ark,  leaves  no  more  mark 
Than  a  keel's  furrow  through  the  main. 

O  Chance  and  Change !  our  buzz's  range 
Is  scarcely  wider  than  a  fly's  ; 
Then  let  us  play  at  fame  to-day, 
To-morrow  be  unknown  and  wise  ; 
And  while  the  fair  beg  locks  of  hair, 
And  autographs,  and  Lord  knows  what, 
Quick !  let  us  scratch  our  moment's  match, 
Make  our  brief  blaze,  and  be  forgot  I 


254  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Too  pressed  to  wait,  upon  her  slate 
Fame  writes  a  name  or  two  in  doubt ; 
Scarce  written,  these  no  longer  please, 
And  her  own  finger  rubs  them  out : 
It  may  ensue,  fair  girl,  that  you 
Years  hence  this  yellowing  leaf  may  see, 
And  put  to  task,  your  memory  ask 
In  vain,  "  This  Lowell,  who  was  he  ?  " 


AT  THE   COMMENCEMENT   DINNER,   1866 

IN  ACKNOWLEDGING  A  TOAST   TO    THE   SMITH  PROFESSOR 

I  RISE,  Mr.  Chairman,  as  both  of  us  know, 

With  the  impromptu  I  promised  you  three  weeks 

ago, 
Dragged  up  to  my  doom  by  your  might  and  my 

mane, 

To  do  what  I  vowed  I  'd  do  never  again  ; 
And  I  feel  like  your  good  honest  dough  when  pos- 

sest 

By  a  stirring,  impertinent  devil  of  yeast. 
"You  must   rise,"   says   the   leaven.     "I   can't," 

says  the  dough ; 
"  Just  examine  my  bumps,  and  you  '11  see  it  's  no 

go." 
"  But  you  must,"  the  tormentor  insists,  "  't  is  all 

right ; 
You  must  rise  when  I  bid  you,  and,  what 's  more, 

be  light." 


AT  THE   COMMENCEMENT  DINNER     255 

'T  is  a  dreadful  oppression,  this  making  men  speak 
What  they're  sure  to  be  sorry  for  all  the  next 

week; 

Some  poor  stick  requesting,  like  Aaron's,  to  bud 
Into  eloquence,  pathos,  or  wit  in  cold  blood, 
As  if  the  dull  brain  that  you  vented  your  spite  on 
Could   be   got,  like   an   ox,  by   mere   poking,  to 

Brighton. 

They  say  it  is  wholesome  to  rise  with  the  sun, 
And  I  dare  say  it  may  be  if  not  overdone ; 
(I  think  it  was  Thomson  who  made  the  remark 
'T  was  an  excellent  thing  in  its  way  —  for  a  lark  ;) 
But  to  rise  after  dinner  and  look  down  the  meet- 
ing 

On  a  distant  (as  Gray  calls  it)  prospect  of  Eating, 
With  a  stomach  half  full  and  a  cerebrum  hollow 
As  the  tortoise-shell  ere  it  was  strung  for  Apollo, 
Under  contract  to  raise  anerithmon  gelasma 
With  rhymes  so  hard  hunted  they  gasp  with  the 

asthma, 

And  jokes  not  much  younger  than  Jethro's  phy- 
lacteries, 

Is  something  I  leave  you  yourselves  to  character- 
ize. 

I  Ve  a  notion,  I  think,  of  a  good  dinner  speech, 
Tripping  light  as  a  sandpiper  over  the  beach, 
Swerving  this  way  and  that  as  the  wave  of   the 

moment 
Washes  out  its  slight  trace  with  a  dash  of  whim's 

foam  on  't, 


256  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

And  leaving  on  memory's  rim  just  a  sense 
Something  graceful  had  gone  by,  a  live  present 

tense ; 

Not  poetry,  —  no,  not  quite  that,  but  as  good, 
A  kind  of  winged  prose  that  could  fly  if  it  would. 
'T  is  a  time  for  gay  fancies  as  fleeting  and  vain 
As  the  whisper  of  foam-beads  011  fresh-poured  cham- 
pagne, 

Since  dinners  were  not  perhaps  strictly  designed 
For  manoeuvring  the  heavy  dragoons  of  the  mind. 
When  I  hear  your  set  speeches  that  start  with  a 

pop, 

Then  wander  and  maunder,  too  feeble  to  stop, 
With  a  vague  apprehension  from  popular  rumor 
There   used   to   be   something   by  mortals   called 

humor, 
Beginning   again   when   you   thought    they   were 

done, 

Respectable,  sensible,  weighing  a  ton, 
And  as  near  to  the  present  occasions  of  men 
As  a  Fast  Day  discourse  of  the  year  eighteen  ten, 
I  —  well,  I  sit  still,  and  my  sentiments  smother, 
For  am  I  not  also  a  bore  and  a  brother  ? 

And  a  toast,  —  what  should  that  be  ?     Light,  airy, 

and  free, 

The  foam- Aphrodite  of  Bacchus's  sea, 
A  fancy-tinged  bubble,  an  orbed  rainbow-stain, 
That  floats  for  an  instant  'twixt  goblet  and  brain  ; 
A   breath-born   perfection,   half     something,   half 

naught, 
And  breaks  if  it  strike  the  hard  edge  of  a  thought. 


AT  THE   COMMENCEMENT  DINNER     257 

Do  you  ask  me  to  make   such  ?     Ah  no,  not  so 

simple  ; 

Ask  Apelles  to  paint  you  the  ravishing  dimple 
Whose  shifting  enchantment  lights  Venus's  cheek, 
And  the  artist  will  tell  you  his  skill  is  to  seek ; 
Once  fix  it,  't  is  naught,  for  the  charm  of  it  rises 
From  the  sudden  bopeeps  of  its  smiling  surprises. 

I  've  tried  to  define  it,  but  what  mother's  son 
Could  ever  yet  do  what  he  knows  should  be  done  ? 
My  rocket  has  burst,  and  I  watch  in  the  air 
Its  fast-fading  heart's-blood  drop  back  in  despair  ; 
Yet  one  chance  is  left  me,  and,  if  I  am  quick, 
I  can  palm  off,  before  you  suspect  me,  the  stick. 

Now  since  I  've  succeeded  —  I  pray  do  not  frown  — 
To  Ticknor's  and  Longfellow's  classical  gown, 
And  profess  four  strange  languages,  which,  luck- 
less elf, 

I  speak  like  a  native  (of  Cambridge)  myself, 
Let  me  beg,  Mr.  President,  leave  to  propose 
A  sentiment  treading  on  nobody's  toes, 
And  give,  in  such  ale  as  with  pump-handles  we 

brew, 

Their  memory  who  saved  us  from  all  talking  He- 
brew, — 

A  toast  that  to  deluge  with  water  is  good, 
For  in  Scripture  they  come  in  just  after  the  flood : 
I  give  you  the  men  but  for  whom,  as  I  guess,  sir, 
Modern  languages  ne'er  could  have  had  a  profes- 
sor, 
The  builders  of  Babel,  to  whose  zeal  the  lungs 


258  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

Of  the  children  of  men  owe  confusion  of  tongues ; 
And  a  name  all-embracing  I  couple  therewith, 
Which   is   that   of    my  founder  —  the    late  Mr. 
Smith. 


A  PARABLE 

AN  ass  munched  thistles,  while  a  nightingale 

From  passion's  fountain  flooded  all  the  vale. 

"  Hee-haw ! "  cried  he,  "  I  hearken,"  as  who  knew 

For  such  ear-largess  humble  thanks  were  due. 

"  Friend,"   said   the  winged  pain,    "  in   vain  you 

bray? 

Who  tunnels  bring,  not  cisterns,  for  my  lay ; 
None  but  his  peers  the  poet  rightly  hear, 
Nor  mete  we  listeners  by  their  length  of  ear." 
COLONNA,  ITALY,  1852. 


EPIGRAMS 

SAYINGS 

1. 

IN  life's  small  things  be  resolute  and  great 

To  keep  thy  muscle  trained:  know'st  thou  when 

Fate 

Thy  measure  takes,  or  when  she  '11  say  to  thee, 
"  I  find  thee  worthy ;  do  this  deed  for  me  "  ? 

2. 

A  camel-driver,  angry  with  his  drudge, 

Beating  him,  called  him  hunchback ;  to  the  hind 

Thus    spake,   a    dervish :    "  Friend,  the    Eternal 

Judge 
Dooms  not  His  work,  but  ours,  the  crooked  mind." 

3. 

Swiftly  the  politic  goes  :  is  it  dark  ?  —  he  borrows 

a  lantern  ; 
Slowly  the  statesman  and  sure,  guiding  his  steps 

by  the  stars. 

4. 

"  Where  lies  the  capital,  pilgrim,  seat  of  who  gov- 
erns the  Faithful?" 

"  Thither  my  footsteps  are  bent :  it  is  where  Saadi 
is  lodged." 


260  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 

INSCRIPTIONS 

FOR  A   BELL   AT   CORNELL   UNIVERSITY 

I  CALL  as  fly  the  irrevocable  hours, 
Futile  as  air  or  strong  as  fate  to  make 

Your  lives  of  sand  or  granite  ;  awful  powers, 
Even  as  men  choose,  they  either  give  or  take. 


FOR  A  MEMORIAL  WINDOW  TO  SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH, 
SET  UP  IN  ST.  MARGARET'S,  WESTMINSTER,  BY  AMER- 
ICAN CONTRIBUTORS 

THE  New  World's  sons,  from  England's  breasts  we 
drew 

Such  milk  as  bids  remember  whence  we  came  ; 
Proud  of  her  Past  wherefrom  our  Present  grew, 

This  window  we  inscribe  with  Ealeigh's  name. 


PROPOSED   FOR  A  SOLDIERS*    AND   SAILORS*    MONUMENT 
IN   BOSTON 

To  those  who  died  for  her  on  land  and  sea, 
That  she  might  have  a  country  great  and  free, 
Boston  builds  this  :  build  ye  her  monument 
In  lives  like  theirs,  at  duty's  summons  spent. 


EPIGRAMS  261 


A  MISCONCEPTION 

B,  TAUGHT  by  Pope  to  do  his  good  by  stealth, 
'Twixt  participle  and  noun  no  difference  feeling, 
In  office  placed  to  serve  the  Commonwealth, 
Does  himself  all  the  good  he  can  by  stealing. 


THE  BOSS 

SKILLED  to  pull  wires,  he  baffles  Nature's  hope, 
Who  sure  intended  him  to  stretch  a  rope. 


SUN-WORSHIP 

IF  I  were  the  rose  at  your  window, 
Happiest  rose  of  its  crew, 
Every  blossom  I  bore  would  bend  inward, 
They  'd  know  where  the  sunshine  grew. 


CHANGED    PERSPECTIVE 

FULL  oft  the  pathway  to  her  door 
I  've  measured  by  the  selfsame  track, 
Yet  doubt  the  distance  more  and  more, 
'T  is  so  much  longer  coming  back ! 


262  HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE 


WITH   A  PAIR  OF   GLOVES  LOST   IN   A 
WAGER 

WE  wagered,  she  for  sunshine,  I  for  rain, 
And  I  should  hint  sharp  practice  if  I  dared ; 
For  was  not  she  beforehand  sure  to  gain 
Who  made  the  sunshine  we  together  shared  ? 


SIXTY-EIGHTH   BIRTHDAY 

As  life  runs  on,  the  road  grows  strange 
With  faces  new,  and  near  the  end 
The  milestones  into  headstones  change, 
'Neath  every  one  a  friend. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

A  beggar  through  the  world  am  I,  vii.  14. 

A  camel-driver,  angry  with  his  drudge,  x.  259. 

A  heap  of  bare  and  splintery  crags,  ix.  197. 

A  hundred  years !  they  're  quickly  fled,  x.  245. 

A  legend  that  grew  in  the  forest's  hush,  vii.  198. 

A  lily  thou  wast  when  1  saw  thee  first,  vii.  28. 

A  poet  cannot  strive  for  despotism,  vii.  66. 

A  presence  both  by  night  and  day,  ix.  196. 

A  race  of  nobles  may  die  out,  vii.  276. 

A  stranger  came  one  night  to  Yussouf 's  tent,  ix.  242. 

About  the  oak  that  framed  this  chair,  of  old,  x.  132. 

Alike  I  hate  to  be  your  debtor,  ix.  272. 

Along  a  river-side,  I  know  not  where,  x.  1. 

Amid  these  fragments  of  heroic  days,  x.  184. 

An  ass  munched  thistles,  while  a  nightingale,  x.  258. 

"And  how  could  you  dream  of  meeting  ?  "  x.  195. 

Another  star  'neath  Time's  horizon  dropped,  vii.  289. 

Are  we,  then,  wholly  fallen  ?     Can  it  be,  vii.  269. 

As  a  twig  trembles,  which  a  bird,  vii.  245. 

As,  cleansed  of  Tiber's  and  Oblivion's  slime,  x.  135. 

As,  flake  by  flake,  the  beetling  avalanches,  vii.  252. 

As  life  runs  on,  the  road  grows  strange,  x.  262. 

As  sinks  the  sun  behind  yon  alien  hills,  x.  183. 

As  the  broad  ocean  endlessly  upheaveth,  vii.  64. 

At  Carnac  in  Brittany,  close  on  the  bay,  x.  156. 

At  length  arrived,  your  book  I  take,  x.  123. 

At  twenty  we  fancied  the  blest  Middle  Ages,  x.  242. 

Ay,  pale  and  silent  maiden,  vii.  53. 

B,  taught  by  Pope  to  do  his  good  by  stealth,  x.  261. 
Beauty  on  my  hearth-stone  blazing !  ix.  246. 
Beloved,  in  the  noisy  city  here,  vii.  64. 


264  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES 

Beneath  the  trees,  x.  10. 

Bowing  thyself  in  dust  before  a  Book,  vii.  271. 

Can  this  be  thou  who,  lean  and  pale,  vii.  237. 
Come  back  before  the  birds  are  flown,  x.  171. 
"  Come  forth !  "  my  catbird  calls  to  me,  ix.  282. 
Curtis,  whose  Wit,  with  Fancy  arm  in  arm,  x.  138. 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way,  vii.  2:25. 

Dear  M. By  way  of  saving  time,  vii.  305. 

Dear  Sir,  — You  wish  to  know  my  notions,  viii.  109. 
Dear  Sir,  —  Your  letter  come  to  ban',  viii.  369. 
Dear  Wendell,  why  need  count  the  years,  x.  120. 
Death  never  came  so  nigh  to  me  before,  vii.  239. 
Don't  believe  in  the  Flying  Dutchman  ?  x.  229. 
Down  'mid  the  tangled  roots  of  things,  ix.  264. 

Ef  I  a  song  or  two  could  make,  viii.  346- 
Entranced  I  saw  a  vision  in  the  cloud,  x.  89. 
Ere  pales  in  Heaven  the  morning  star,  x.  168. 

Fair  as  a  summer  dream  was  Margaret,  vii.  78. 

Far  over  Elf-land  poets  stretch  their  sway,  x.  184. 

Far  through  the  memory  shines  a  happy  day,  x.  37. 

Far  up  on  Katahdin  thou  towerest,  vii.  166. 

Far  'yond  this  narrow  parapet  of  Time,  vii.  67. 

Fit  for  an  Abbot  of  Theleme,  ix.  255. 

"  For  this  true  nobleness  I  seek  in  vain,  vii  59. 

Frank-hearted  hostess  of  the  field  and  wood,  ix.  150. 

From  the  close-shut  windows  gleams  no  spark,  vii.  12.    v 

Full  oft  the  pathway  to  her  door.  x.  261. 

Giddings,  far  rougher  names  than  thine  have  grown,  vii.  72. 

Go  !  leave  me,  Priest;  my  soul  would  be,  vii.  202. 

God  !  do  not  let  my  loved  one  die,  vii.  43. 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still,  viii.  211. 

God  sends  his  teachers  unto  every  age,  vii.  123. 

Godminster  ?     Is  it  Fancy's  play  ?  ix.  182. 

Gold  of  the  reddening  sunset,  backward  thrown,  x.  188. 

Gone,  gone  from  us!  and  shall  we  see,  vii.  1. 

Great  soul,  thou  sittest  with  me  in  my  room,  vii.  59. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  265 

Great  truths  are  portions  of  the  soul  of  man,  vii.  60. 
Guvener  B.  is  a  sensible  man,  viii.  66. 

He  came  to  Florence  long-  ago,  ix.  179. 

He  spoke  of  Burns  :  men  rude  and  rough,  vii.  120. 

He  stood  upon  the  world's  broad  threshold  ;  wide,  vii.  70. 

He  who  first  stretched  his  nerves  of  subtile  wire,  x.  201. 

Heaven's  cup  held  down  to  me  I  drain,  vii.  242. 

Here  once  my  step  was  quickened,  ix.  216. 

"  Here  we  stan'  on  the  Constitution,  by  thunder  !  viii.  91. 

Hers  all  that  Earth  could  promise  or  bestow,  x.  186. 

Hers  is  a  spirit  deep,  and  crystal-clear,  vii.  8. 

How  strange  are  the  freaks  of  memory !  ix.  278. 

How  struggles  with  the  tempest's  swells,  ix.  253. 

How  was  I  worthy  so  divine  a  loss,  x.  170. 

Hushed  with  broad  sunlight  lies  the  hill,  vii.  273. 

am  a  man  of  forty,  sirs,  a  native  of  East  Haddam,  ix.  126. 

ask  not  for  those  thoughts,  that  sudden  leap,  vii.  60. 

call  as  fly  the  irrevocable  hours,  x.  260. 
'.   cannot  think  that  thou  shouldst  pass  away,  vii.  62. 

christened  you  in  happier  days,  before,  x.  127. 
I  could  not  bear  to  see  those  eyes,  x.  177. 
I  did  not  praise  thee  when  the  crowd,  vii.  277. 
I  do  not  come  to  weep  above  thy  pall,  vii.  286. 
I  don't  much  s'pose,  hows' ever  I  should  plen  it,  viii.  379. 
I  du  believe  in  Freedom's  cause,  viii.  99. 
I  go  to  the  ridge  in  the  forest,  ix.  218. 
I  grieve  not  that  ripe  knowledge  takes  away,  vii.  71. 
I  had  a  little  daughter,  vii.  246. 
I  have  a  fancy :  how  shall  I  bring  it,  x.  204. 
I  hed  it  on  my  rain'  las'  time,  when  I  to  write  ye  started,  viii. 
279. 

know  a  falcon,  swift  and  peerless,  vii.  129. 

love  to  start  out  arter  night 's  begun,  viii.  253. 

need  not  praise  the  sweetness  of  his  song,  ix.  281. 

rise,  Mr.  Chairman,  as  both  of  us  know,  x.  254. 

sat  and  watched  the  walls  of  night,  x.  200. 

sat  one  evening  in  my  room,  vii.  216. 

saw  a  Sower  walking  slow,  vii.  160. 

saw  the  twinkle  of  white  feet,  vii.  175. 


266  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES 

I  sent  you  a  message,  my  friens,  t'  other  (Jay,  viii.  302. 

I  spose  you  recollect  thet  I  explained  my  gennle  views,  viii.  134. 

I  spose  you  wonder  ware  I  be ;  I  can't  tell,  fer  the  soul  o'  me, 

viii.  117. 

!  swam  with  undulation  soft,  ix.  266. 

. .  thank  ye,  my  frien's,  for  the  warmth  o'  your  greetin',  viii.  318. 
! '.  thought  our  love  at  full,  but  I  did  err ;  vii.  72. 

treasure  in  secret  some  long,  fine  hair,  ix.  211. 

,  walking  the  familiar  street,  x.  159. 

was  with  thee  in  Heaven  :  I  cannot  tell,  x.  183. 

watched  a  moorland  torrent  run,  x.  202. 

went  to  seek  for  Christ,  vii.  176. 
'. '.  would  more  natures  were  like  thine,  vii  29. 
I  would  not  have  this  perfect  love  of  ours,  vii.  58. 
If  I  let  fall  a  word  of  bitter  mirth,  x.  64. 
If  I  were  the  rose  at  your  window,  x.  261. 
In  a  small  chamber,  friendless  and  unseen,  vii.  282. 
In  his  tower  sat  the  poet,  vii.  46. 
In  life's  small  things  be  resolute  and  g^eat,  x.  259. 
In  the  old  days  of  awe  and  keen-eyed  wonder,  vii.  32. 
In  town  I  hear,  scarce  wakened  yet,  x.  178. 
Into  the  sunshine,  vii.  30. 
It  is  a  mere  wild  rosebud,  vii.  119. 
It  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John,  viii.  268. 
It  mounts  athwart  the  windy  hill,  ix.  287. 
It  was  past  the  hour  of  trysting,  vii.  212. 

It 's  some  consid'ble  of  a  spell  sence  I  hain't  writ  no  letters,  viii 
222. 

Leaves  fit  to  have  been  poor  Juliet's  cradle-rhyme,  x.  136. 

Light  of  triumph  in  her  eyes,  x.  193. 

Look  on  who  will  in  apathy,  and  stifle  they  who  can,  vii.  222. 

Maiden,  when  such  a  soul  as  thine  is  born,  vii.  61. 

Mary,  since  first  I  knew  thee,  to  this  hour,  vii.  68. 

Men  say  the  sullen  instrument,  ix.  285. 

Men !  whose  boast  it  is  that  ye,  vii.  146. 

My  coachman,  in  the  moonlight  there,  ix.  181. 

My  day  began  not  till  the  twilight  fell,  x.  148. 

My  heart,  I  cannot  still  it,  x.  198. 

My  Love,  I  have  no  fear  that  thou  shouldst  die,  vii.  62. 


INDEX  OF  FIR$T  LINES  267 

My  name  is  Water :  I  have  sped,  vii.  264. 

My  soul  was  like  the  sea,  vii.  26. 

My  worthy  friend,  A.  Gordon  Knott,  ix.  96. 

Never,  surely,  was  holier  man,  vii.  207. 

New  England's  poet,  rich  in  love  as  years,  x  134. 

Nine  years  have  slipt  like  hour-glass  sand,  ix.  189. 

No  ?     Hez  he  ?     He  haint,  though  ?     Wut  ?      Voted  agin  him  ? 

viii.  76. 

Nor  deem  he  lived  unto  himself  alone,  x.  128. 
Not  always  unimpeded  can  I  pray,  ix.  172. 
Not  as  all  other  women  are,  vii.  15. 
Now  Biorn,  the  son  of  Heriulf,  had  ill  days,  ix.  220. 

O  days  endeared  to  every  Muse,  x.  231. 

."  O  Dryad  feet,"  x.  192. 

O  dwellers  in  the  valley-land,  vii.  210. 

O  Land  of  Promise  !  from  what  Pisgah's  height,  vii.  172. 

O  moonlight  deep  and  tender,  vii.  06. 

O,  wandering  dim  on  the  extremest  edge,  vii.  168. 

Of  all  the  myriad  moods  of  mind,  vii.  250. 

Oft  round  my  hall  of  portraiture  I  gaze,  x.  182. 

Oh,  tell  me  less  or  tell  me  more,  x.  177. 

Old  events  have  modern  meanings  ;  only  that  survives,  ix.  231. 

Old  Friend,  farewell !     Your  kindly  door  again,  x.  128. 

Once  git  a  smell  o'  musk  into  a  draw,  viii.  330. 

Once  hardly  in  a  cycle  blossometh,  vii.  65. 

Once  on  a  time  there  was  a  pool,  viii.  298. 

One  after  one  the  stars  have  risen  and  set,  vii.  105. 

One  feast,  of  holy  days  the  crest,  ix.  245. 

One  kiss  from  all  others  prevents  me,  x.  179. 

Opening  one  day  a  book  of  mine,  x.  199. 

Our  love  is  not  a  fading,  earthly  flower,  vii.  69. 

Our  ship  lay  tumbling  in  an  angry  sea,  x.  14. 

Over  his  keys  the  musing  organist,  vii.  291. 

Phoebus,  sitting  one  day  in  a  laurel-tree's  shade,  ix.  15. 

Praisest  Law,  friend  ?    We,  too,  love  it  much  as  they  that  love  it 

best,  vii.  258. 

Propped  on  the  marsh,  a  dwelling  now  I  see,  viii.  23. 
Punctorum  garretos  colens  et  cellara  Quinque,  viii.  355. 


268  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES 

Rabbi  Jehosha  used  to  say,  ix.  244. 

Reader !     Walk  up  at  once  (it  will  soon  be  too  late),  ix.  1. 

Rippling  through  thy  branches  goes  the  sunshine,  vii.  215. 

Said  Christ  our  Lord,  "  I  will  go  and  see,  vii.  262. 

Seat  of  all  woes  ?     Though  Nature's  firm  decree,  x.  187. 

She  gave  me  all  that  woman  can,  x.  172. 

Shell,  whose  lips,  than  mine  more  cold,  x.  203. 

Ship,  blest  to  bear  such  freight  across  the  blue,  x.  133. 

Shy  soul  and  stalwart,  man  of  patient  will,  x.  129. 

Silencioso  por  la  puerta,  x.  180. 

Sisters  two,  all  praise  to  you,  vii.  162. 

Skilled  to  pull  wires,  he  baffles  Nature's  hope,  x.  261. 

Sleep  is  Death's  image,  —  poets  tell  us  so,  x.  172. 

So  dreamy-soft  the  notes,  so  far  away,  x.  187. 

Some  sort  of  heart  I  know  is  hers,  —  vii.  233. 

Sometimes  come  pauses  of  calm,  when  the  rapt  bard,  holding  his 

heart  back,  x.  165. 

Somewhere  in  India,  upon  a  time,  ix.  137. 
Spirit,  that  rarely  cornest  now,  ix.  257. 
Still  thirteen  years  :  'tis  autumn  now,  ix.  213. 
Swiftly  the  politic  goes :  is  it  dark  ?  —  he  borrows  a  lantern,  x. 

259. 

Thank  God,  he  saw  you  last  in  pomp  of  May,  x.  127. 

Thanks  to  the  artist,  ever  on  my  wall,  x.  135. 

That  's  a  rather  bold  speech,  my  Lord  Bacon,  x.  197. 

The  Bardling  came  where  by  a  river  grew,  ix.  232. 

The  century  numbers  fourscore  years,  x.  202. 

The  cordage  creaks  and  rattles  in  the  wind,  vii.  148. 

The  dandelions  and  buttercups,  ix.  176. 

The  electric  nerve,  whose  instantaneous  thrill,  x.  101. 

The  fire  is  burning  clear  and  blithely,  ix.  243. 

The  hope  of  Truth  grows  stronger,  day  by  day,  vii.  63. 

The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last,  ix.  212. 

The  love  of  all  things  springs  from  love  of  one,  vii.  66. 

The  Maple  puts  her  corals  on  in  May,  x.  185. 

The  misspelt  scrawl,  upon  the  wall,  x.  253. 

The  moon  shines  white  and  silent,  vii.  41. 

The  New  World's  sons,  from  England's  breasts  we  drew,  x.  260. 

The  next  whose  fortune  't  was  a  tale  to  tell,  x.  205. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  '  269 

The  night  is  dark,  the  stinging  sleet,  vii.  38. 

The  old  Chief,  feeling  now  wellnigh  his  end,  vii.  142. 

The  path  from  me  to  you  that  led,  x.  167. 

The  pipe  came  safe,  and  welcome  too,  x.  125. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands,  vii.  43. 

The  same  good  blood  that  now  refills,  vii.  266. 

The  sea  is  lonely,  the  sea  is  dreary,  vii.  5. 

The  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming,  ix.  166. 

The  tower  of  old  Saint  Nicholas  soared  upward  to  the  skies,  vii. 

157. 

The  wind  is  roistering  out  of  doors,  ix.  149. 
The  wisest  man  could  ask  no  more  of  Fate,  x.  130. 
The  world  turns  mild ;  democracy,  they  say,  x.  239. 
There  are  who  triumph  in  a  losing  cause,  vii.  280. 
There  came  a  youth  upon  the  earth,  vii.  117. 
There  lay  upon  the  ocean's  shore,  ix.  173. 
There  never  yet  was  flower  fair  in  vain,  vii.  63. 
Therefore  think  not  the  Past  is  wise  alone,  vii.  67. 
These  pearls  of  thought  in  Persian  gulfs  were  bred,  x.  123., 
These  rugged,  wintry  days  I  scarce  could  bear,  vii.  69. 
They  pass  me  by  like  shadows,  crowds  on  crowds,  vii.  70. 
Thick-rushing,  like  an  ocean  vast,  vii.  27- 
This  is  the  midnight  of  the  century,  —  hark  !  ix.  174. 
This  kind  o'  sogerin'  aint  a  mite  like  our  October  trainin',  viii. 

53. 

This  little  blossom  from  afar,  vii.  13. 
Thou  look'dst  on  me  all  yesternight,  vii.  50. 
Though  old  the  thought  and  oft  exprest,  ix.  175.  . 

Thrash  away,  you  '11  hev  to  rattle,  viii.  44. 
Through  suffering  and  sorrow  thou  hast  passed,  vii.  57. 
Thy  love  thou  sentest  oft  to  me,  vii.  201. 
Thy  voice  is  like  a  fountain,  vii.  23. 
'T  is  a  woodland  enchanted  I  ix.  234. 
To  those  who  died  for  her  on  land  and  sea,  x.  260. 
True  as  the  sun's  own  work,  but  more  refined,  x.  131. 
True  Love  is  a  humble,  low-born  thing,  vii.  21. 
Turbid  from  London's  noise  and  smoke,  x.  173. 
'T  was  sung  of  old  in  hut  and  hall,  x.  166. 
'Twere  no  hard  task,  perchance,  to  win,  x.  6. 
Two  brothers  once,  an  ill  matched  pair,  viii.  29. 
Two  fellers,  Isrel  named  and  Joe,  viii.  27. 


270  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES 

Unconscious  as  the  sunshine,  simply  sweet,  x.  130. 
Untremulous  in  the  river  clear,  vii.  18. 

Violet !  sweet  violet !  vii.  48. 

Wait  a  little  :  do  we  not  wait  ?  ix.  261. 

Walking  alone  where  we  walked  together,  x.  180. 

We  see  but  half  the  causes  of  our  deeds,  vii.  131. 

We,  too,  have  autumns,  when  our  leaves,  vii.  268. 

We  wagered,  she  for  sunshine,  I  for  rain,  x.  262. 

Weak-winged  is  song,  x.  17. 

What  boot  your  houses  and  your  lands  ?  vii.  165.  * 

What  countless  years  and  wealth  of  brain  were  spent,  x.  189. 

"  What  fairings  will  ye  that  I  bring  ?  "  ix.  168. 

What  gnarled  stretch,  what  depth  of  shade,  is  his  !  vii.  205. 

What  man  would  live  coffined  with  brick  and  stone,  vii.  248. 

What  mean  these  banners  spread,  x.  191. 

"What  means  this  glory  round  our  feet,"  x.  181. 

What  Nature  makes  in  any  mood,  ix.  194. 

What  visionary  tints  the  year  puts  on,  vii.  185. 

What  were  I,  Love,  if  I  were  stripped  of  thee,  vii.  58. 

What  were  the  whole  void  world,  if  thou  wert  dead,  x.  190. 

When  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom,  through  the  broad  earth's  ach- 
ing breast,  vii.  178. 

When  I  was  a  beggarly  boy,  ix.  188. 

When  oaken  woods  with  buds  are  pink,  x.  163. 

When  Persia's  sceptre  trembled  in  a  hand,  ix.  163. 

When  the  down  is  on  the  chin,  x.  196. 

When  wise  Minerva  still  was  young,  x.  226. 

Where  is  the  true  man's  fatherland  ?  vii.  37. 

"  Where  lies  the  capital,  pilgrim,  seat  of  who  governs  the  Faith- 
ful ?  "  x.  259. 

Whether  my  heart  hath  wiser  grown  or  not,  vii.  73. 

Whether  the  idle  prisoner  through  his  grate,  vii.  130. 

While  the  slow  clock,  as  they  were  miser's  gold,  x.  186. 

Whither  ?     Albeit  I  follow  fast,  x.  32. 

Who  cometh  over  the  hills,  x.  65. 

Who  does  his  duty  is  a  question,  x.  137. 

Who  hath  not  been  a  poet  ?     Who  hath  not,  ix.  184. 

Why  should  I  seek  her  spell  to  decompose,  x.  133. 

With  what  odorous  woods  and  spices,  x.  174. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  271 

Woe  worth  the  hour  when  it  is  crime,  vii.  284. 

Wondrous  and  awful  are  thy  silent  halls,  vii.  170. 

Words  pass  as  wind,  but  where  great  deeds  were  done,  x.  74. 

Worn  and  footsore  was  the  Prophet,  vii.  54. 

Ye  little  think  what  toil  it  was  to  build,  x.  189. 
Ye  who,  passing  graves  by  night,  vii.  227. 
Yes,  faith  is  a  goodly  anchor,  ix.  214. 

Zekle  crep'  up,  qiiite  unbeknown,  viii.  10. 


GENERAL  INDEX  OF  TITLES 


A.  C.  L.,  To,  vii.  57. 

Above  and  Below,  vii.  210. 

Absence,  x.  172. 

After  the  Burial,  ix.  214. 

Agassiz,  x.  101. 

Agro-Dolce,  x.  179. 

Al  Fresco,  ix.  176. 

Aladdin,  ix.  188. 

Alexander,  Fanny,  To,  x.  130. 

All-Saints,  ix.  245. 

Allegra,  vii.  29. 

Ambrose,  vii.  207. 

Anti-Apis,  vii.  258. 

Appledore,  Pictures  from,  ix.  197. 

Arcadia  Rediviva,  x.  159. 

At  the  Burns  Centennial,  x.  245. 

At  the  Commencement  Dinner,  1866, 

x.  254. 

Auf  Wiedersehen,  ix.  212. 
Auspex,  x.  198. 

Bankside,  x.  127. 

Bartlett,  Mr.  John,  To,  ix.  255. 

Beaver  Brook,  vii.  273. 

Beggar,  The,  vii.  14. 

Bibliolatres,  vii.  271. 

Biglow,  Mr.  Hosea,  to  the  Editor  of 

the  Atlantic  Monthly,  viii.  369. 
Biglow,    Mr.,   Latest   Views  of,  viii. 

341. 

BIGLOW  PAPERS,  THE,  viii.  1. 
Biglow's,  Mr.  Hosea,  Speech  in  March 

Meeting,  viii.  375. 
Birch-Tree,  The,  vii.  215. 
Birdofredum    Sawin,    Esq.,    to    Mr. 

Hosea  Biglow,  viii.  215. 
Birdofredum    Saw;n,    Esq.,    to    Mr. 

Hosea  Biglow,  viii.  271. 
Birthday  Verses,  x.  166. 
Black  Preacher,  The,  x.  156. 
Blondel,  Two  Scenes  from  the  Life 

of,  x.  6. 

Bon  Voyage  !  x.  133. 
Boss,  The,  x.  261. 
Boston,  Letter  from,  vii.  305. 
Bradford,  C.  F.,  To,  x.  125. 
Brakes,  The,  x.  189. 
Brittany,  A  Legend  of,  vii.  78. 
Broken  Tryst,  The,  x.  180. 
Burns  Centennial,  At  the,  x.  246. 


Captive,  The,  vii.  212. 

Capture  of  Fugitive  Slaves  near  Wash- 

ington,  On  the,  vii.  222. 
Casa  sin  Alma,  x.  180. 
CATHEDRAL,  THE,  x.  37. 
Cervantes,  Prison  of,  x.  187. 
Changed  Perspective,  x.  261. 
Changeling,  The,  vii.  246. 
Channing,  Dr.,  Elegy  on  the  Death  of, 

vii.  286. 

Chippewa  Legend,  A,  vii.  142. 
Christmas  Carol,  A,  x.  181. 
Cochituate  Water,  Ode  written  for  the 

Celebration  of  the  Introduction  of 

the,  into  the  City  of  Boston,  vii.  264. 
Columbus,  vii.  148. 
Concord  Bridge,  Ode  read  at  the  One 

Hundredth  Anniversary  of  the  Fight 

at,  x.  65. 

Contrast,  A,  vii.  201. 
Courtin',  The,  viii.  10,  211. 
Credidimus  Jovem  Regnare,  x.  231. 
Curtis,  George  William,  An  Epistle  to, 

x.  138. 

Dancing  Bear,  The,  x.  184. 
Dandelion,  To  the,  vii.  225. 
Dante,  On  a  Portrait  of,  by  Giotto, 

vii.  237. 
Dara,  ix.  163. 

Darkened  Mind,  The,  ix.  243. 
Dead  House,  The,  ix.  216. 
Death  of  a  Friend's  Child,  On  the, 

vii.  239. 

Death  of  Queen  Mercedes,  x.  186. 
Debate  in  the  Sennit,  The,  viii.  89. 
Discovery,  The,  x.  202. 
Dobson's,   Mr.   Austin,   "Old  World 

Idylls,"  On  Receiving  a  Copy  of,  x. 

123. 

E.  G.  de  R.,  x.  133. 

Eleanor  makes  Macaroons,  x.  193. 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Dr.  Channing, 

vii.  286. 

Ember  Picture,  An,  ix.  278. 
Endymion,  x.  148. 
Epistle  to  George  William  Curtis,  An, 

x.  138. 
Estrangement,  x.  167.     ' 


GENERAL   INDEX   OF  TITLES 


273 


Eurydice,  vii.  242. 
Ewig-Weibliche,  Das,  x.  170. 
Extreme  Unction,  vii.  202. 
Eye's  Treasury,  The,  x.  188. 

FABLE  FOR  CRITICS,  A,  ix.  1. 

Fact  or  Fancy  ?  x.  178. 

Falcon,  The,  vii.  129. 

Familiar  Epistle  to  a  Friend,  A,  ix. 

272. 

Fancy's  Casuistry,  ix.  253. 
Fatherland,  The,  vii.  37. 
Festina  Lente,  viii.  298. 
Finding  of  the  Lyre,  The,  ix.  173. 
First  Snow-Fall,  The,  ix.  166. 
Fitz  Adam's  Story,  x.  205. 
Flying  Dutchman,  The,  x.  229. 
Foot-Path,  The,  ix.  287. 
For  an  Autograph,  ix.  175. 
Foreboding,  A,  x.  190. 
Forlorn,  The,  vii.  38. 
Fountain,  The,  vii.  30. 
Fountain  of  Youth,  The,  ix.  234. 
Fourth  of  July,  1876,  An  Ode  for  the, 

x.  89. 
Fragments  of  an  Unfinished  Poem,  ix. 

126. 

France,  Ode  to,  vii.  252. 
"  Franciscus  de  Verulamio  sic  cogita- 

vit,"  x.  197. 
Freedom,  vii.  269. 
Future,  To  the,  vii.  172. 

Garrison,  W.  L.,  To,  vii.  282. 

Ghost-Seer,  The,  vii.  227. 

Giddings,  J.  R.,  To,  vii.  72. 

Glance  behind  the  Curtain,  A,  vii.  131. 

Godminster  Chimes,  ix.  182. 

Gold  Egg  :  A  Dream-Fantasy,  ix.  266. 

Graves  of  two  English  Soldiers  on 
Concord  Battle-Ground,  Lines  sug- 
gested by  the,  vii.  266. 

Growth  of  the  Legend,  The,  vii.  198. 

H.  W.  L.,  To,  ix.  281. 

Hamburg,  An  Incident  of  the  Fire  at, 
vii.  157. 

Hr.ppiness,  Ode  to,  ix.  257. 

Harvard  Commemoration,  Ode  re- 
cited at  the,  x.  17. 

HEARTSEASE  AND  RUE,  x.  101. 

Hebe,  vii.  175. 

Heritage,  The,  vii.  43. 

Holmes,  To,  x.  120. 

Hood,  To  the  Memory  of,  vii.  289. 

Hunger  and  Cold,  vii.  162. 

In  a  Copy  of  Omar  Khayyam,  x.  123. 

In  Absence,  vii.  69. 

In  an  Album,  x.  253. 

In  the  Half- Way  House,  x.  242. 

In  the  Twilight,  ix.  285. 

Incident  in  a  Railroad  Car,  An,  vii.  120. 

Incident  of  the  Fire  at  Hamburg,  An, 

vii.  157. 
Indian-Summer  Reverie,  An,  vii.  185. 


I  Inscriptions,  x.  260. 
For  a  I 


Bell  at  Cornell  University. 
For  a  Memorial  Window  to  Sir  Wal- 
ter Raleigh,  set  up  in  St.  Marga- 
ret's, Westminster,  by  American 
Contributors. 
Proposed  for  a  Soldiers'  and  Sailors' 

Monument  in  Boston. 
Interview  with  Miles  Standish,   An, 

vii.  216. 

Invita  Minerva,  ix.  232. 
Invitation,  An,  ix.  189. 
Inverara,  On  Planting  a  Tree  at,  x. 

Irene",  vii.  8. 

Jonathan  to  John,  viii.  266. 

Keats,  To  the  Spirit  of,  vii.  59. 
Kettelopotomacliia,  viii.  352. 
Kossuth,  vii.  276. 

Lamartine,  To,  vii.  277. 

Landlord,  The,  vii.  165. 

Latest  Views  of  Mr.  Biglow,  viii.  341. 

Leaving  the  Matter  open,  viii.  29. 

Legend  of  Brittany,  A,  vii.  78. 

L'Envoi  (To  the  Muse),  x.  32. 

L'Envoi  (Whether  my  heart  hath  wiser 
grown  or  not,),  vii.  73. 

Lesson,  The,  x.  200. 

Letter,  A,  from  a  candidate  for  the 
presidency  in  answer  to  suttin  ques- 
tions proposed  by  Mr.  Hosea  Big- 
low,  inclosed  in  a  note  from  Mr. 
Biglow,  to  S.  H.  Gay,  Esq.,  editor 
of  the  National  Anti-Slavery  Stand- 
ard, viii.  106. 

Letter,  A,  from  Mr.  Ezekiel  Biglow  of 
Jaalam  to  the  Hon.  Joseph  T.  Buck- 
ingham, editor  of  the  Boston  Cou- 
rier, inclosing  a  poem  of  his  son,  Mr. 
Hosea  Biglow,  viii.  43. 

Letter,  A,  from  Mr.  Hosea  Biglow  to 
the  Hon.  J.  T.  Buckingham,  editor 
of  the  Boston  Courier,  covering  a 
letter  from  Mr.  B.  Sawin,  private  in 
the  Massachusetts  Regiment,  viii.  51. 

Letter  from  Boston,  vii.  305. 

Lines  (suggested  by  the  Graves  of  two 
English  Soldiers  on  Concord  Battle- 
Ground),  vii.  266. 

Longing,  vii.  250. 

Love,  vii.  21. 

Love's  Clock,  x.  192. 

M.  O.  S.,  To,  vii.  68. 

Mahmood  the  Image-Breaker,  ix.  231. 

Maple,  The,  x.  185. 

Masaccio,  ix.  179. 

Mason  and  Slidell :  a  Yankee  Idyll, 
viii.  240. 

Memorise  Positum,  x.  10. 

Message  of  Jeff  Davis  in  Secret  Ses- 
sion, A,  viii.  297. 

Midnight,  vii.  41. 


274 


GENERAL  INDEX   OF  TITLES 


Miner,  The,  ix.  264. 
Misconception,  A,  x.  261. 
Miss  D.  T.,  To,  x.  135. 
Monna  Lisa,  x.  172. 
Mood,  A,  ix.  218. 
Moon,  The,  vii.  26. 
My  Love,  vii.  15. 
My  Portrait  Gallery,  x.  182. 

Nest,  The,  x.  163. 

New- Year's  Eve,  1850,  ix.  174. 

New  Year's  Greeting,  A,  x.  202. 

Nightingale  in  the  Study,  The,  ix.  282. 

Nightwatches,  x.  186. 

Nomades,  The,  ix.  194. 

Norton,  Charles  Eliot,  To,  ix.  149. 

Oak,  The,  vii.  205. 

Ode,  An  (for  the  Fourth  of  July, 
1876),  x.  89. 

Ode  (In  the  old  days  of  awe  and  keen- 
eyed  wonder),  vii.  32. 

Ode  (read  at  the  One  Hundredth  An- 
niversary of  the  Fight  at  Concord 
Bridge),  x.  65. 

Ode  recited  at  the  Harvard  Commem- 
oration, x.  17. 

Ode  to  France,  vii.  252. 

Ode  to  Happiness,  ix.  257. 

Ode  (written  for  the  Celebration  of 
the  Introduction  of  the  Cochituate 
Water  into  the  City  of  Boston),  vii. 
264. 

Omar  Khayyam,  In  a  Copy  of,  x.  123. 

On  a  Portrait  of  Dante  by  Giotto,  vii. 
237. 

On  an  Autumn  Sketch  of  H.  G.  Wild, 
x.  135. 

On  being  asked  for  an  Autograph  in 
Venice,  x.  184. 

On  Board  the  '76,  x.  14. 

On  burning  some  Old  Letters,  x.  174. 

On  planting  a  Tree  at  Inverara,  x. 
137. 

On  reading  Wordsworth's  Sonnets  in 
Defence  of  Capital  Punishment,  vii. 
64. 

On  receiving  a  Copy  of  Mr.  Austin 
Dobson's  "Old  World  Idylls,"  x. 
123. 

On  the  Capture  of  Fugitive  Slaves 
near  Washington,  vii.  222. 

On  the  Death  of  a  Friend's  Child,  vii. 
239. 

On  the  Death  of  C.  T.  Torrey,  vii.  284. 

Optimist,  The,  x.  173. 

Oriental  Apologue,  An,  ix.  137. 

Origin  of  Didactic  Poetry,  x.  226. 

Palfrey,  John  G.,  To,  vii.  280. 

Palinode,  ix.  213. 

Paolo  to  Francesca,  x.  183. 

Parable,  A  (An  Ass  munched  Thistles, 

while  a  Nightingale),  x.  258. 
Parable,  A  (Said  Christ  our  Lord,  "  I 

will  go  and  see),  vii.  262. 


Parable,  A  (Worn  and  footsore  was 

the  Prophet),  vii.  54. 
Parting  of  the  Ways,  The,  ix.  184. 
Past,  To  the,  vii.  170. 
Perdita,  singing,  To,  vii.  23. 
Pessimoptimism,  x.  189. 
Petition,  The,  x.  177. 
Phillips,  Wendell,  vii.  70. 
Phoebe,  x.  168. 

Pictures  from  Appledore,  ix.  197. 
Pine-Tree,  To  a,  vii.  166. 
Pioneer,  The,  vii.  248. 
Pious  Editor's  Creed,  The,  viii.  97. 
Portrait  of  Dante  by  Giotto,  On  a,  vii. 

237. 

Prayer,  vii.  43. 

Pregnant  Comment,  The,  x.  199. 
Present  Crisis,  The,  vii.  178. 
Prison  of  Cervantes,  x.  187. 
Prometheus,  vii.  105. 
Protest,  The,  x.  177. 

Recall,  The,  x.  171. 

Remarks  of  Increase  D.  O'Phace,  Es- 
quire, at  an  extrumpery  caucus  in 
State  Street,  reported  "by  Mr.  H. 
Biglow,  viii.  75. 

Remembered  Music,  vii.  27. 

Requiem,  A,  vii.  53. 

Rhoecus,  vii.  123. 

Rosaline,  vii.  50. 

Rose,  The  :  a  Ballad,  vii.  46. 

Sayings,  x.  259. 

Scherzo,  x.  196. 

Science  and  Poetry,  x.  201. 

Scottish  Border,  x.  183. 

Search,  The,  vii.  176. 

Seaweed,  ix.  172. 

Second  Letter,  A,  from  B.  Sawin,  Esq. 

viii.  116. 

Secret,  The,  x.  204. 
Self-Study,  ix.  196. 
Serenade,  vii.  12. 
She  came  and  went,  vii.  245. 
Shepherd  of  King  Admetus,  The,  vii. 

117. 
Si  descendero  in  Infernum,  ades,  vii. 

168. 

Singing  Leaves,  The,  ix.  168. 
Sirens,  The,  vii.  5. 
Sixty-Eighth  Birthday,  x.  262. 
Song  (O  moonlight  deep  and  tender), 

vii.  56. 

Song  (To  M.  L.),  vii.  28. 
Song  (Violet !  sweet  violet !),  vii.  48. 
SONNETS. 

Bankside,  x.  127. 

Bon  Voyage  !  x.  133. 

Brakes,  The,  x.  189. 

Dancing  Bear,  The,  x.  184. 

Death  of  Queen  Mercedes,  x.  186. 

E.  G.  de  R.,  x.  133. 

Eye's  Treasury,  The,  x.  188. 

Foreboding,  A,  x.  190. 

In  Absence,  vii.  69. 


GENERAL  INDEX  OF  TITLES 


275 


Maple,  The,  x.  185. 

Nightwatches,  x.  186. 

On  an  Autumn  Sketch  of  H.  G. 
Wild,  x.  135. 

On  being  asked  for  an  Autograph  in 
Venice,  x.  184. 

On  reading  Wordsworth's  Sonnets  in 
Defence  of  Capital  Punishment, 
vii.  64. 

Paolo  to  Francesca,  x.  183. 

Pessimoptimism,  x.  189. 

Phillips,  Wendell,  vii.  70. 

Scottish  Border,  x.  183. 

Street,  The,  vii.  70. 

Sub  pondere  crescit,  vii.  63. 

To  A.  C.  L.,  vii.  57. 

To  a  Friend,  x.  131. 

To  a  Lady  playing  on  the  Cithern, 
x.  187. 

To  Fanny  Alexander,  x.  130. 

To  J.  R.  Giddings,  vii.  72. 

To  M.  O.  S.,  vii.  68. 

To  M.  W.,  on  her  Birthday,  vii.  61. 

To  Miss  D.  T.,  x.  135. 

To  the  Spirit  of  Keats,  vii.  59. 

To  Whittier,  x.  134. 

Winlock,  Joseph,  x.  129. 

With  a  copy  of  Aucassin  and  Nico- 
lete,  x.  136. 

With  an  Armchair,  x.  132. 

Wyman,  Jeffries,  x.  130. 
Sower,  The,  vii.  160. 
Speech  of  Honourable  Preserved  Doe 

in  Secret  Caucus,  viii.  311. 
Standish,  Miles,  An   Interview  with, 

vii.  216. 

Stanzas  on  Freedom,  vii.  146. 
Street,  The,  vii.  70. 
Studies  for  two  Heads,  vii.  233. 
Sub  pondere  crescit,  vii.  63. 
Summer  Storm,  vii.  18. 
Sun-Worship,  x.  261. 
Sunthin'  in  the  Pastoral  Line,  viii.  328. 

Telepathy,  x.  195. 

Tempora  Mutantur,  x.  239. 

Third  Letter,  A,  from  B.  Sawin,  Esq. 

viii.  133. 
Threnodia,  vii.  1. 

To ,  vii.  268. 

To  A.  C.  L.,  vii.  57. 
To  a  Friend,  x.  131. 
To  a  Lady  playing  on  the  Cithern,  x. 

187. 

To  a  Pine-Tree,  vii.  166. 
To  C.  F.  Bradford,  x.  125. 
To  Charles  Eliot  Norton,  ix.  149. 
To  H.  W.  L.,  ix.  281. 
To  Holmes,  x.  120. 


To  J.  R.  Giddings,  vii.  72. 

To  John  G.  Palfrey,  vii.  280. 

To  Lamartine,  vii.  277. 

To  M.  O.  S.,  vii.  68. 

To  M.  W.,  on  her  Birthday,  vii.  61. 

To  Miss  D.  T.,  x.  135. 

To  Mr.  John  Bartlett,  ix.  255. 

To  Perdita,  singing,  vii.  23. 

To  the  Dandelion,  vii.  225. 

To  the  Future,  vii.  172. 

To  the  Memory  of  Hood,  vii.  289. 

To  the  Past,  vii.  170. 

To  the  Spirit  of  Keats,  vii.  59. 

To  W.  L.  Garrison,  vii.  282. 

To  Whittier,  x.  134. 

Token,  The,  vii.  119. 

Torrey,  C.  T.,  On  the  Death  of,  vii. 

Trial,'  vii.  130. 

Two  Gunners,  The,  viii.  27. 
Two  Scenes  from  the  Life  of  Blondel, 
x.  6. 

Under  the  October  Maples,  x.  191. 
Under  the  Old  Elm,  x.  74. 
UNDER  THE  WILLOWS,  ix.  150. 
Unhappy  Lot  of  Mr.  Knott,  The,  ix. 


Villa  Franca,  ix.  261. 

VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL,  THE,  vii.  290. 

Voyage  to  Vinlaud,  The,  ix.  220. 

Washers  of  the  Shroud,  The,  x.  1. 
What  Mr.  Robinson  thinks,  viii.  64. 
What  Rabbi  Jehosha  said,  ix.  244. 
Whittier,  To,  x.  134. 
Wild,  H.  G.,  On  an  Autumn  Sketch 

of,  x.  135. 

Wind-Harp,  The,  ix.  211. 
Winlock,  Joseph,  x.  129. 
Winter-Evening  Hymn  to  my  Fire,  A, 

ix.  246. 
With  a  Copy  of  Aucassin  and  Nicolete, 

x.  136. 
With  a  Pair  of  Gloves  lost  in  a  Wager, 

x.  262. 

With  a  Pressed  Flower,  vii.  13. 
With  a  Seashell,  x.  203. 
With  an  Armchair,  x.  132. 
Without  and  Within,  ix.  181. 
Wordsworth's  Sonnets  in  Defence  of 

Capital   Punishment,    On    reading. 

vii.  64. 
Wyman,  Jeffries,  x.  130. 

Youthful  Experiment  in  English  Hex- 

ameters, A,  x.  165. 
Yussouf,  ix.  242. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

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